


I Can Read You Like a Book

by antiseptic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blogs, F/M, Lots of sarcasm, M/M, Texting, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles, and puns, broke college students, minor Transphobia, more tags will probably be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4408838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiseptic/pseuds/antiseptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a (broke) college student who spends a lot of time blogging and researching for top surgery. Which he can only do with internet he doesn't have. </p><p>That is until he and Scott stumble upon a bookstore with wifi that, for once, loads more than a page of text in an hour.</p><p>It's also where he meets Derek Hale and has some not-so-conventional staring contests.</p><p>update: 8/25/16<br/>IT LIIIIVES</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shamelessly written at four in the morning and now has actual plot.  
> beta'd by my good friend tori! 
> 
> hey please feel free to correct me if anything seems off!! im trans myself but not on t yet so some vital information may be messed up oops.  
> ill do my best to fix it!

They told him college would be a great change of pace. A good, full circle of experiences he couldn't pass up for anything. He also learned that his social life was mainly constructed of his outlet from the world in a small blog he held. But, it was pretty certain that was a bunch of bull shit when his internet was cut off and his crappy job didn't pay enough to fix it. 

So, on a Saturday of all days, Stiles found his alarm blaring an overly excited pop song at ten in the morning to signal his doomed day of looking for somewhere with free wifi to keep him from failing class. The last several attempts landed him enough internet to _maybe _load a single page of text and half a photo before he made some obscure gestures with his hands and twisted his face up in ways that probably scared some regulars from coming back.__

__Stiles let out a low grumble, face haphazardly pressed into a cream coloured pillow that had a wet spot from where his mouth was slightly open. Somewhere between this and rolling onto his side, he hit the snooze button and dozed off for another ten minutes._ _

__That is until his phone went off and Stiles only barely knocked his hands against the side table in an attempt to grab it. Sheets were thrown over his waist, one leg tucked under and the other thrust over an unfortunate pillow that never quite made it off the bed. As soon as his fingers slid the lock screen off, Scott's voice filled his ears._ _

__"Weren't you supposed to be up, like, two hours ago?" Scott beamed this, and Stiles only managed a small 'oh shit' to drag across the mattress before he flung himself out of it._ _

__Scott was laughing when Stiles hit speaker and tossed his phone onto his bed, only briefly bouncing before coming to a stop on the massive face of his superhero bedspread._ _

__While Scott was still dying on the other end, Stiles had moved from one end of his room to the bathroom in record time. He could be in the Olympics for best morning routine, but not on Saturdays. Never Saturdays._ _

__"Stiles?" was muffled by Ironman's face as he returned to the phone, toothbrush lodged between his lips._ _

__Stiles made a noise around the foamy brush, and he was sure he could see Scott tilting his head. The brush popped out almost immediately, back of his hand swiping over his lips before he tried again. "Morning to you too. Why didn't you wake me up earlier?"_ _

__There was rustling on the other line before he heard Scott clear his throat. "Didn't fall asleep for awhile." He sounded sheepish, the slight scratch of fingers on hair buzzing. "Allison-" _Oh.__ _

__"I don't want to know," was the only thing Stiles half mumbled before dropping the phone again and shuffled back into the bathroom to spit and rinse. When he came back out, he could hear Scott practically whine before adding: "You still going to the bookstore with me?"_ _

__As Stiles threw off his sleeping clothes onto a growing pile in the corner, he dug around for something that wasn't covered in scratches or stains. "Yeah, duh man. Lydia said she'd kill me if I didn't make sure you don’t mess up anything again."_ _

__Their conversation fell into its usual topic after the mention of Lydia. Stiles asked about how Allison was doing on the other side of the country, Scott left out the more intimate details (he learned Stiles mostly made retching noises or very questionable approval, and since then the topic has grown shorter). Scott would complain about his major and everything his professors wanted him to know by the end of the week while Stiles would return with a list of information he had to get while he was out. By the time he finally got done getting ready, it was a little after noon that he met up with Scott at his house._ _

__They usually walked where they wanted to go since Stiles wasn't sure how much his Jeep could handle, and he didn't exactly have a wad of cash lying around to go fixing her up. It's a miracle duct tape works as well as it does. Today, however, the blue Jeep hummed when the passenger door opened and Scott's dopey grin was exposed. They were driving a bit out of town to one of Lydia's researched bookstores. One that apparently has good ratings in both actual book selling and customer service._ _

__"Hey," Scott said as Stiles pulled off from the side of the road, the Jeep only protesting once before it took off at a leisurely pace._ _

__"Hey," was Stiles reply._ _

__Scott already had his phone out and was giving directions when Stiles yawned, head leaning back against the seat. "My followers are going to be pissed and think I died or something. I haven't been on in what, two weeks?" A groan and a left turn later, Scott grinned._ _

__"I'm sure Lydia has your back. She probably got into your account and updated for you at least once to let them know you didn't get abducted in your sleep."_ _

__"That or I stabbed out my eye with T," Stiles offered, and Scott only laughed.  
"You did that what, once? And it wasn't even your eye."_ _

__They fell into a comfortable silence. Scott has been his best friend since he was in kindergarten. They grew up together, and Scott was always the first to know about something whenever it was on Stiles' mind. When he came out to him in fourth grade as wanting to be a boy, Scott merely adopted the nickname "Stiles" for him and never complained. Sure, he slipped up, but that's what kids do. Even then, Scott was easy to talk about when it came to his testosterone or mishaps he's had while trying to stab his leg to, as Stiles calls it, get his man on. It was just their thing. It's what they did._ _

__So as Stiles hummed in agreement, he pulled the next right a couple blocks down and into a small outlet of different stores. It could have been a strip mall if he were worried about labels, but from the outside it looked kind of empty colour wise. He could point out the local coffee shop sitting on the corner while a music store was next to it. A furniture store took up three buildings worth of material, and wedged in between that and a take out place was a banner that said "Books BeGone."_ _

__Well that's a depressing name for a bookstore._ _

__"Are you sure this is it?" Stiles asked as he parked the car, the engine puttering at him as he pat the steering wheel with affection._ _

__Scott nodded in confirmation, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his washed out jeans. "That's the one."_ _

__In the middle of all of this, he wasn't really surprised that he never noticed it before. It must've been relatively new since they didn't have permanent lettering on the front, so Stiles only sighed and pushed open the door to his side of the car. "Well," he drawled, "here goes nothing."_ _


	2. Chapter 2

When the glass door was pushed open, Stiles half expected the soundtrack to a horror movie and a terrifying squeal to accompany the hinges which moved as slowly as they did. The only noise was a small jingle of a bell that echoed around the store and a lanky, curly haired guy peering out from behind a stack of books. 

“Isaac?” was the first thing that came out of Scott’s mouth, who took a few steps into the building in an excited rush- leaving Stiles plastered to the door and sucking in his breath so he didn’t get knocked over. 

The door swung shut soon after, Stiles shuffling past the mat on the floor that said “Welcome.” The thing was obviously new, but it managed to look old anyways. It was beige with letters of darker beige. Just looking at it made Stiles feel...Beige. Ew. He decided that it made him feel decidedly unwelcome. Just about as unwelcome as when his best friend rushed around him and left him staring at a welcome mat. But, you know. Whatever.

“Scott!” Curly beamed, a rather toothy smile just barely edging over the books that he set down on a cart that had at least another thirty books on it. 

So they knew each other. Awesome. 

Not that Stiles minded, of course, but as he peaked around the corner of Scott’s now even further away shoulder, he could make out an excited stammer of ‘how have you been’ and ‘it’s good to see yous.’ He only huffed, stooping slightly and shoving both hands into his pockets. Suddenly coming here didn’t feel like such a hot idea. 

Once the bromance broke apart, Isaac was on Scott’s heels when they returned to where Stiles still stood awkwardly in front of the door. “Stiles, this is Isaac Lahey. He used to go to our school before he moved away for a year.” Stiles just nodded and offered a tight smile.

“But I’m back!” Isaac provided, nodding his head curtly with that familiar puppy smile Scott usually bore- except his was more lopsided than the latter. It was then Isaac seemed to remember he was working because his hands drew out from his hair. Stiles wasn’t really sure if it was a dirty blonde or just dark with blonde highlights. “Anyways, welcome to Book Beacon. We just recently-”

“I thought it was BeGone?” Stiles suddenly interjected, causing Isaac’s face to go blank before he gasped. 

“No, no no no.” Isaac shook his head vigorously, hands doing this small jig on either side of himself. It went back into his hair almost immediately after. He must have a nervous habit of it, or something. “When Peter asked for a temporary sign they misheard us and put BeGone instead of Beacon. We didn’t really have time to fix it since, well…”

“My uncle didn’t catch what he said until the banner got here. A few days ago.” 

Oh shit. Oh shit. Stiles didn’t even notice the dude watching them from behind the counter. Not that the counter was super noticeable from the front of the store, it was kind of wedged to the right, half hidden behind a small shelf containing new releases. When he did, though, his mouth just about went slack jawed. 

The dude was wearing a black henley with a small red nametag, though he couldn’t make out what it said from where he was standing. He had that weird five o’clock shadow thing going on, the one that Stiles usually complained he wanted to show up on his own face. His eyes, though, almost seemed to glint from the counter as he shoved a book back into a bag, all the while still staring Isaac-or himself- down. He wasn’t really sure.

Not until Scott punched him in the arm and he realized he was on the verge of drooling. Glancing back to Isaac who was suddenly much more shy, he coughed and ran a hand through his own hair. 

Scott, the life saver that he is, stared right back at Dude Bro. “So your uncle owns this place?” He called, and Dude Bro nodded once before turning back to what he was doing.

They all just kind of stood there for a minute before Isaac cleared his throat. “Hey, since it’s not too busy, I can give you guys a tour.” He offered, giving a small shrug when Scott grinned and looked back to Stiles who had taken out his phone to distract himself.

He was on the settings to connect to wifi when he noticed “Book Beacon” flicker onto the screen.

Four bars. 

Stiles made a happy sound and shot his gaze back to Scott who looked startled, quickly thrusting his phone into his best friend’s face. “They have internet. Solid internet!” 

Scott was about to open his mouth when Isaac replied with a soft “You have to buy something to use it.” 

That was when Stiles gripped both of Scott’s shoulders and made the best puppy-eyed face he could. “Get me a coffee so I can use their internet. Please.” 

He looked like he was going to protest until Isaac yet again cut in to save him. Or do business. Probably business. “We have a coffee machine. It’s only like two bucks for a black coffee.” 

 

Soon enough, Stiles found himself sitting behind one of the few tables they had at the internal cafe, chair shoved close to the table and lips closed around the rim of the cup. Their pass had been a series of numbers that Isaac rattled off to him, and soon enough he was loading his blog. And even more surprisingly, it loaded every dumb little graphic that popped up on the one side and a photo Lydia must’ve taken while Stiles was passed out at her place. 

“Yessss,” was the only thing Stiles managed to say before clicking on his notifications. 

He had gone through at least five hundred within twenty minutes, mostly closing them or replying with smilies and the occasional “cool!” When he finally unglued his eyes from the screen, he noticed how close he actually was to the counter. Where Dude Bro was still stacking books and scanning the backs. Actually, that’s when he finally looked around the store and didn’t just hone in on one thing.

The store itself seemed like it used to be a movie store before this, some poorly painted over letters lining a wall once saying “Adult” now were smudged and mostly faded. It was pretty small, considering. The cafe floor had enough room for three round tables that had two chairs each, a small bar blocking off a coffee machine and a glass window that had a couple different sandwich options inside. There was a fridge with a couple drink options back there too. 

To Stiles’ left, a couple feet away, was the corner of the counter where people paid for their books, the cash register near the center and some smaller racks with candy or the motivational bookmarks on either end. Dude Bro was still working and didn’t seem to look up once while Stiles was scanning over everything. 

The rest of the store was neatly sectioned off rows of books, the newer ones towards the front, while he could see the furthermost sign something about foreign languages. So that means they must have medical books, too. Even if it’s the For Dummies variant that Stiles is all too familiar with. 

He noticed Scott still following Isaac around as he showed him the different genres they carried, and every now and then he could see Scott’s mouth moving with some sort of reply or question.

His phone plinked, Stiles realizing he had bitten through the matte-feeling surface of the cup when he looked back to what he was doing. 

Right. He had given an update that said he wasn’t dead as soon as he sat down.

A notification popped up in the corner from bansheebride.

**bansheebride >good to see your new spot is working. :) how’s the service? ;)**

Of course. 

Leave it to Lydia to find the new store with some guy’s hot nephew working the front register and Scott’s other friend working there, too. 

Stiles only replied with an angry emoticon before Scott dropped a heavy book on the other side, making Stiles throw his hands up and also throw his phone half way across the table. Stiles’ pupils dilated when he looked up, heart rattling fiercely in his chest as Scott offered a lopsided apology smile before tapping the surface of the book.

 _Why I Wore Lipstick: To My Mastectomy_ stood on the front cover, while a smiling lady with a pink t-shirt was bright against the white background. Stiles shot Scott a look before pulling the book towards himself and flipping it over to read the back. 

Scott waited while Stiles read out loud. It was only when he was done that Scott seemed to get the message and give that kicked dog look before Stiles sighed, bringing up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have cancer, Scott. I’m also pretty sure I’m not trying to find myself.”

Scott gently took the book back and scratched behind his ear. “I thought you were looking for books on mastectomy,” he mumbled, and Stiles resisted the urge to gently whap him upside the head.

“I am, Scott, but I’m pretty sure we got past the whole long hair blue eyes thing about six years ago.” Stiles had a hand on his coffee, quickly taking a sip to hide the grin on his face. Scott noticed it, though, because he was grinning back before walking away with the book to go return it to its shelf. 

As much as he loved Scott, sometimes it was hard to remind him that he was looking for actual medical books and not someone’s life story on how they beat cancer. Those just reminded him of his mom, and it always took him awhile to bounce back after reading a success story on beating it. 

When he looked back to his phone, another notification popped up from the transgender youth group he was in. It simply said “Glad to have you back, Stiles!” in a silly font with an emoticon of a balloon by it. Stiles grinned to himself as he took another sip of the coffee, finally deciding to get up out of his chair and go look around. 

Only, he stopped after he realized there was no actual section labeled “Medical Science” in clear sight, and he didn’t really feel like spending the next two hours poking and prodding through books while possibly avoiding some very concerned looks from old ladies as he accidentally pulls out a copy of “How to Woo Your Man” that was somehow crammed behind some much more innocent books. Because it’s happened before. He didn’t feel like ducking his head in shame again, especially in the place where he’d probably be spending the majority of his college life. Or, at least until he found a not-so-shitty job to get his internet working again.

Stiles took a breath and spun around on his heel towards the front desk, much too prideful to track down Isaac and apologize for not taking a tour then babbling on about the book he’s looking for. He simply marched up to the counter, put a hand on the edge and opened his mouth without waiting for Hot and Handsome to look up. “Where’s your medical section at?” came out as more of a rushed “Wheresyourmedicalsuctionart” since Stiles found the need to burrow his face behind the cup to avoid fucking up his words. Or speaking too fast.

Both of which he realized he failed when Hot and Handsome scowled at him. Scowled. Who does that? 

“Uh, what?” The man mumbled, one hand on a book while the other was on an old style bar code scanner.

Stiles cleared his throat, put his coffee cup down and tried again. “Medical books. I need them for, uh, stuff. Where are they?” 

“Towards the back of the store, under the Anatomy section.” The guy replied, his scowl even more scowl-y than before. His brow was, like, dangerously close to looking like he wanted to kill a man. Or kill Stiles. And probably with his eyebrows.

Stiles simply nodded and busied his hands. “Thanks, uh…” He paused, glanced to the red nametag, then back to the man’s face. “Derek,” he finished. He spun around too soon to notice the soft ‘uh huh’ as a reply. 

That dude-Derek- would definitely explain the Books BeGone banner. He thought it suited the place a bit better, anyways. 

At least he and Scott would have a good running joke if it turns out the place wasn’t an iconic staple for local murderers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again big thanks to my beta tori who is like, the best thing to happen in my writing!!


	3. Chapter 3

As it turns out, Scott and Stiles survived their first visit to the bookstore. 

Scott ended up getting a book on mythology while Stiles had purchased three different books on the human body, at least one of them having explicit pictures on the male circumcision. Not that Stiles was looking for that specifically. 

He only managed to drop them once by the time he was ready to walk back to the front desk, and spent several minutes making strangled noises as his hands shook too much to properly pick up the books and put them on the counter without making them all clatter. Derek only glared at him once, so he considered that a small victory. 

If he didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn he saw Derek lingering a little too long on the book with male circumcision in it, like he knew exactly what was in those dark pages. When he finally rang them up though, Stiles had offered a “have a nice day” in which Derek, the gentleman that he is, replied with a grunt. A real winner, that boy was. Must make his family proud with his ray of sunshine ways.

They were only at the store for about two hours, but Scott insisted that they go to the arcade. Stiles wasn’t going to argue with that, especially when Scott offered to pay for him.

So when he finally returned to his small apartment, Stiles was happy and breathless and just wanted to pour a bowl of cereal and maybe sleep for the rest of the weekend. 

It was only around seven when Stiles threw himself and landed half sprawled over his couch with the bag of books teetering dangerously on the edge of the table. 

Something about Derek seemed familiar, and he was half tempted to search for him on Facebook until his phone went off with the Robocop theme song- his dad’s personal ringtone. 

He made a low groan in the back of his throat, body arching to fish out his phone from his back pocket. Once he had it and slid it on call, the sound of his dad’s voice rang in his left ear. “Hey, Stiles.” 

“Hey dad.”

Sheriff Stilinski made a noise on the other end of the phone, the sound of papers crinkling in the static. “How’s school been?” 

Their conversations were usually pretty awkward over the phone. His dad never called on the weekdays since he was mostly on the night shifts, while Stiles usually had classes Wednesday through Friday until around noon. Then he spent about two or three hours working on essays or papers before passing out and waking up around eight at night, then spending another three hours finishing said essay or getting lost on some shitty reality TV. 

Sunday, Monday and Tuesday he worked at a coffeehouse just down the block from six in the morning until around one in the afternoon. After that, he usually just worked on whatever assignments he had for class due the following day.

Instead of replying with some form of ‘good’, Stiles rolled himself so he was sitting up and leaning back against the couch, phone crooked between his cheek and ear. “It’s alright. We had a substitute for one of our professors on Friday.” The Sheriff made a noise on the other line, and Stiles brushed it off. “I corrected her, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure, Stiles? I know the last time that happened-”

“I panicked and stormed out of class, I know. Really, it’s fine. She couldn’t even pronounce my first name.” Stiles tried to sound happy, he did, but it was still hard when his normal professors were out and the subs were either late or too ignorant to listen as Stiles tried to explain to them his situation. He wished there was a button you could attach to their backs and switch on so they never made a mistake. 

Of course, he could legally change his name and gender in California, he knew this, but he was still struggling with getting enough money to keep his apartment, cable and phone bill up and out of the water. Adding another big chunk of money to be spent was just asking for trouble. 

His dad offered another small hum, the sound of papers replaced by the scribbling of a pen. “As long as you’re okay.”

“I am.” 

They fell quiet after that for a good five minutes, his dad probably writing something important because Stiles could make out the sound of him grumbling about someone every now and then. 

“So there’s this guy.”

That was enough to cause the Sheriff to pause and make a sound. “And?”

“He’s really creepy.” 

There was a bark of laughter, and Stiles found himself grinning despite the awkward silence before hand. “You say that about everyone who isn’t one of your friends.”

Stiles shrugged, kicking his feet up onto the table in front of the couch. “Well he is. He looks like he wants to maul something, like a bear. Or uh, rabid dog. Or maybe he IS one of those things in his free time, I don’t even know. I mean he just had this look like he wanted to pounce over the table and chew on my bones. Maybe-”

“Stiles.” 

“Hm?”

“As much as I love you, and you know I do, save the crush talk for Scott.” His dad didn’t sound unhappy, just more or less flustered that Stiles would try going into detail on this- oh.  
Oh, his dad took it wrong. This was definitely not a crush, nope. No crush here. Not that he was going to tell his dad that- he sounded, well, happy. 

Stiles found himself suddenly warm and pulling at his collar before nodding and laughing to himself. “Right, right, okay. Hey, keep me updated on the local bad guys.” Stiles wiggled his brow while he heard his dad give an almost diva-like sigh. “Also, stay away from the fast food. I have eyes there for me.” 

“Alright, Stiles. Love you.”

“Love you too, dad.” 

Stiles hung up, a loud yawn gritting through his teeth as he arched his back, both hands flexing up over his head. He only huffed and shook himself awake, slowly making his way to the bathroom.

His apartment was, in all reality, a big open room with the kitchen on one side and couch and TV in the other. Of course it was decorated, but only with several posters from bands and a few pictures on a desk in front of the TV. There’s a hall before you walk in, just long enough to accommodate a bedroom on one side. His bathroom was a part of his bedroom, and the door to it was on the opposite wall from his bed by the corner. It had a shower, toilet and sink with the appropriately large medicine cabinet that had more than your regular Nyquil and bandaids.

Stiles was pretty sure he could be his own hospital if he really wanted. Or a drug dealer. He wondered if either could possibly make him enough money to buy the extra sticky duct tape for his jeep. Splurge on her a little. But he was pretty sure that if he did either of those thing that his dad would make sure that the only thing he splurged on for the next few years was some kind of illegal ramen mixture he was buying from his cellmate in prison.

Shaking his head from those thoughts, he managed to strip off his jeans and plaid t-shirt, along with the white tank top underneath. Stiles grabbed a towel from inside the open closet in his room and made his way to the shower that took a couple of minutes to get warm. He stuck his hand in the water about ten different times until he was satisfied, managing to shove his boxers down and kick them into his room before doing the tango with his binder. Honestly, he was bad at remembering he shouldn’t wear it for more than eight hours, but it never went over ten if he could help himself. As he managed to not dislocate an arm by pulling the mesh-fabric over his shoulders and tossing it to the floor, the showers warm water made him grin and make happy noises. 

He had to work tomorrow, but that was okay. It meant that he could have a decent cup of coffee that didn’t taste like old books with a side of grump. 

Stiles only stayed in the shower for about fifteen minutes, power-scrubbing his way through the thoughts of the scowly guy at the shop before he stayed in there for an entirely different reason. 

With the towel around his hips, Stiles wandered back into his room and picked up the small line of clothing, each one tossed into a hamper for the next time he decided to do laundry. He felt more relaxed than usual, finally caught up on his messages for a couple of days, deciding he would go back Monday after work. They were closed Sunday, which made him wonder just what exactly Derek did on his day off. It seemed they were open for long hours, and he couldn’t really imagine Isaac being the type to spend his entire life in a bookstore. 

Stiles pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, drying the rest of himself off haphazardly before plugging in his phone and listening to it beep in confirmation that it, in fact, isn’t dead yet. 

He set his alarm for five and glanced at the time: only nine. Seven hours of sleep was less than preferable, but as he sank into bed and pulled the covers over himself, he was out within ten minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love your beta tester with all you have  
> for they fight just to view your google documents
> 
>  
> 
> in other news, its a papa cop!


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles found himself with his upper body slumped over the left side of the bed, one arm somehow still on the bed and the other tucked under his head. Blankets coiled around his waist, one loose sheet thrown over his shoulders and partially covering his face. His mouth, as per usual, was half open with a pool of saliva threatening to coat his arm. 

And that’s exactly when his alarm went off.

His work alarm was loud and as obnoxious as possible- otherwise Stiles would sleep right through it. But at this early in the morning, this noise being left to go off of its own accord was about the equivalent of throwing a rabbit into a pit of very angry, very blood thirsty dogs. That is, if Stiles were a rabbit and the dogs were the tenants of the neighbouring apartments.

Stiles let out a sharp yelp when his body vaulted the rest of the way off the bed, doing a harsh front-flip that caused his ass to slam directly on the floor. He ended up on his back with either arms over his head, breaths ragged and pupils fully blown. He was pretty sure that whatever just happened caused at least one elderly lady to have a heart attack. 

The alarm was still going when Stiles managed to drag himself back onto his bed, hand splaying out and slapping around aimlessly for the button. When he hit it, his eyes were drawn back down and half open, a series of slow, grumbly curses slipping out of his mouth. 

He considered himself lucky that his hair was still somewhat short, otherwise showers in the morning would be necessary and make him wake up even earlier than he already does.

It took him twenty minutes to piss, brush his teeth and throw his uniform on (which consisted of a black shirt and straight wash jeans) on top of spraying a decent smelling cologne all over him until the smell was less decent and more suffocating.

This would usually only take ten, but Stiles is pretty sure he fell asleep while trying to put his binder on- all he really remembered was being stuck with both arms tangled over his head.   
__

When Stiles got to the coffee shop, his eyes felt like they were burning and his throat was still scratchy from not drinking any liquids once he woke up. At least his breath was minty fresh. Fresh to death. Fresh like him. Or so he liked to believe.

The door jingled open, sign still flipped to “CLOSED” as it swung shut, and Stiles was left dragging himself inside. He trudged across the tile floor down the length of the narrow walkway. He bumped some tables with his hip and gripped the counter to his left to keep from falling in his groggy haze. He ducked behind the counter and walked the length back to the far corner of the counter space. The only blank space among the sea of display cases, filled with both books and treats alike. He rubbed his eyes to try to focus on which display case was before him. Books or treats, both smelled like oatmeal and cinnamon here. What he could still make out clearly was the back wall of books beyond the counter. Most of them were old comics and hand-me-downs, but still tolerable enough to read while enjoying a coffee or choking down a much too dry scone.

Lydia was already behind the register, offering a type of smile that Stiles could only describe as ‘judging you, but not really.’ But the important offering she made was with her hand- a half drunken coffee with her lipstick stains all over it. If Lydia’s coffee couldn’t wake you up, you were a zombie. Or Stiles that particular morning.

He was used to that by now. The annoying smile, not the coffee. The coffee was a nice surprise. Especially when he came in in the mornings looking like someone personally went out of their way to run him over with a truck. 

“Morning, Stiles,” she purred, and Stiles knew that she was just waiting to hear the details on the store from yesterday. He only squinted at her and moved around back, purposely dragging his feet along the scratchy carpet to earn Lydia’s crazy stare and dramatic sigh.

They didn’t open for another ten minutes, and he had already wasted through Lydia’s (somewhat pathetic) coffee remnants, so Stiles poured himself a new cup of straight black coffee and put a few too many spoonfuls of sugar in it, stirring absently while Lydia continued to stare him down until he either cracked or threw an old doughnut at her. 

Except, he’s learned that throwing things just means he has to clean up that as well as whatever else became the end result for their food fight. A steep price to pay for such small satisfaction. Doughnut crumbs never truly came out of the nylon carpet. Not for Stiles, anyways.

It took him several long, painful minutes- to Lydia, at least- of noisy coffee sipping and purposefully prolonged eye contact before he actually spoke to her. “As much as I love you for finding me a place that doesn’t take four years to load my blog, I really, really wish you would warn me about tall, dark, evil, and handsome lurking around.”

Lydia only smirked. Maybe she was the evil one.

Stiles had both hands on the cup, gnawing thoughtfully on the edge of it with both of his brows drawn inwards to copy the scowl he was subjected to yesterday. “You’re cruel.”

She smiled again and walked over, patted his cheek once, then left to go turn the sign to “OPEN”. Wow, rude. “You need to get at least one kiss before you’re twenty, Stiles,” Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Lydia rose her hand up to stop him- “and the one from Scott during truth or dare doesn’t count.”

Stiles pouted, burrowing his nose into the cup further. “It was your idea.”

“Technically, Allison suggested it. I only enforced.” Lydia replied with a sing-song edge, smiling again once she was behind the register and not looking at him. “So tell me, how is he?” 

“Derek, or Scott’s blooming brotherly bromance, Isaac?” 

Lydia hummed for a moment, folding both hands under her chin before she glanced back behind her shoulder to Stiles. He was still half perched on the counter with the coffee machines (God, who allowed him to work there in the first place?) “Isaac was an accident, but it’s good to know Scott’ll have someone else to to cling to while you’re getting comfortable with Derek.” 

Stiles was about to reply when the door jingled open, the cup he was holding meeting the counter as he slid away from his perch. Lydia was immediately smiling, standing up a bit straighter than she was before. “Good morning, welcome to Grounds for Thought, what would you like today?”

He was half way done with putting on his dark red apron when he looked up. There he was. Derek. Derek was standing there at six in the morning- on the dot- on a Sunday of all days. He looked somewhat sweat-slicked, his faded purple henley sticking to his skin.

Stiles was pretty sure it was not raining out when he walked over. 

That didn’t really stop him from rush tying his apron and turning his back to Derek, who (with all of his great social skill and crowd pleasing ways) only scowled and stared him down. That is until he looked back to Lydia who was still patiently- and if Stiles didn’t know any better, proudly- waiting for Derek’s attention. “Strawberry frappe, extra whip,” was the only thing he got out before Stiles was practically choking.

“What are you.”

It wasn’t even a question, more like that question nobody wants to ask a teacher because it sounds stupid, but then you ask it and you take minute to register what you just said. Then half of the class is staring and-

Well, that’s how it felt when he turned around and saw Derek’s bushy brows as high on his forehead as they were. It still didn’t make him look any less murderous than yesterday. “Um, what?”

Deja vu. 

Lydia was looking at him too. This wasn’t fair. Two very evil eyed, very hot people should not be staring Stiles down unless it meant he was going to get a very nice make out session. Not waiting for him to answer a question that sounded more like an insult. Which it was, actually. Probably. 

He simply resorted to flapping his hands above his head, shrugging multiple times and bugging out his eyes. “I mean you don’t exactly scream ‘I would like the fruitiest drink possible with an extra side of sugar.’ It’s more like, y’know, dark coffee with a side of seriously burnt muffin bottom.” Stiles shut his mouth the moment Derek went back to scowling, but now that scowl developed into something of a disappointed, tight lipped line topped with a silent I can’t believe this guy. 

Lydia was just staring at him like he kicked her purse into a road full of hungry leather eating badgers. 

“Strawberry frappe with extra whip on its way,” Stiles mumbled, finding himself emptying milk and mix into the blender and turning it on high to drown out whatever mind reading powers the two of them had. 

He was pretty sure he had it running for a solid five minutes when he looked back, because Lydia was actually talking to Derek, who just simply nodded along and looked anywhere but where Stiles was. Which, okay, he would take that over his weird lusty angry eye thing going on.

Piling on the whip cream in a very not-so passive aggressive way, the lid was popped on and Stiles put the drink on the counter before disappearing before he could be pulled back into another very uncomfortable, very exposing conversation. He could feel Lydia watching him as he power walked to the back room. 

He stayed in there for a solid fifteen minutes before Lydia dragged him out by the back of his shirt and gave him a very disappointed mother-hen look. Wait, not mother hen. That’s weird. He pined over her for the majority of his high school life. Suddenly calling her mother hen just...no. No. 

“He asked me what your name was,” she began, and Stiles started laughing. 

“Probably to look me up on Facebook and figure out my apartment number and knock me upside the head so I never comment on his choice of super fruity drinks ever again.” Stiles added this after wiping tears from his eyes, raspy breaths clawing at his throat while Lydia tapped her foot impatiently. 

“Uh huh, that’s it.” 

“Just spare him the trouble and do it for him,” he murmured, giving the best mime impression he could of knocking himself out- just as a little elderly lady walked in. He’s pretty sure he had a good, solid connection of regrets with her in the moment it took to make eye contact.

He shouldn’t be trusted around old ladies or soccer moms, as it turns out.   
__

The rest of the day in the shop went surprisingly smoothly. Stiles had to apologize to the elderly lady, of course, otherwise the Sheriff would be giving his kid another firm talking to about what not to do in front of strangers. Not that Stiles minded, because he usually had some bomb ass replies on how they had it coming, or some tragic life story about what led up to that point in time. Except, this particular story involved Derek, and he didn’t want to bring that up with his dad again. 

He never did ask Lydia if she told him his name. Not that she would’ve told him anyways after their display that morning. Mainly Stiles, but, you know. He liked to think it wasn’t just him. Even when it was.

Either way, Stiles would be able to show his face the next two days, so that’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my fantastic beta tori for putting up with me on a call and editing this with me.  
> lots of stiles and lydia friendship in this one!
> 
> ps; thank you guys for the kudos! it means a lot :]


	5. Chapter 5

As fate has it, Derek didn’t work on Mondays. It kind of made Stiles wonder just what exactly someone as broody as him did on his days off. He certainly couldn’t imagine a hot cup of tea with soft indie music or, well, anything that didn’t include the guy scowling and scanning his eyes over something like he’d rather be punching it in the face.

Not that books had faces. But if they did, Derek would probably look at them like he wanted to punch them regardless.

Stiles spent the majority of that Monday on his phone while Isaac passed by periodically to mime in his direction, silently asking him if he wanted anything. To this, Stiles would shrug a shoulder and pucker his lips around the bad cup of coffee he had insisted on getting. In all honestly, he sucked down their wifi faster than the coffee. 

It also turned out that Books Begone (he’d never get tired of that, honestly) was closed on Sundays. Which explains...well, nothing, but Stiles felt a little better knowing that somehow. 

Actually, it raised the question for him as to why in the hell Derek had shown up so damn early for coffee on a Sunday if he didn’t have work to get to. But that was a concern for another time.

Stiles also learned that the bookstore doesn’t actually open until noon, closing around six each night. That only allowed him 6 sweet, sweet wifi filled hours at most. 

Tuesday rolled by much is the same way as Monday, uneventfully. No terrifying strangers had walked in either (although that old lady from Sunday had, and she’d seemed rather worried to walk into the store. Lydia had to smile a 90 watt smile just to get her to approach the counter while Stiles remained hidden from view behind some conveniently placed mugs).

Uneventfully save that on Tuesday he got out of work ten minutes late. He had glanced furtively at the clock for the entirety of those ten minutes, somewhat resenting every tick beyond 1:00, when he was meant to clock out. He has been held up due to some confused older gentleman who didn’t know the difference between a frappucino and a latte. Stiles spent a solid twenty minutes of that day convincing him that it _really_ wasn’t that big of a difference. Twenty solid minutes of his life that he would never, ever get back.

And after all that, the old man ended up getting the home brew.

To say the very least, the two days he had worked weren’t as exciting as he had wanted them to be. Then again, with the rest of the week still looming ahead of him, it was best that nothing happened. He was enjoying having a rare, mundane week. He considered that he may even end up having, dare he think it, a good week.

__

And that’s when Wednesday happened. 

Stiles had gotten up at a reasonable time to catch his morning class. And by reasonable, it’s meant that he set his alarm the night before with the thought of “Please dear lord do not let me oversleep again,” and so set it two hours early. It was only a ten minute drive (give or take, it was in direct relation with the amount of civilians who played chicken in the road on any given morning).

He brushed his teeth, took a shower, and used the toilet to round out the use of his entire bathroom (although perhaps not in that order). It was only after he was getting his clothes from the drawer did he realize none of his binders were actually passing for _clean._

In fact, most of them had some sort of pit stain and vague odor that he recognized as stress and disappointment. That grade-A Teen boy smell.

He usually saved his laundry for Saturday mornings since the laundromat opened at seven. He had forgotten all about it this week in his enthusiastic fervor over the bookshop.

While Stiles stood there for another couple of minutes, glaring at his clothes, he came to the conclusion that the rest of the week would definitely be a red hoodie with extra t-shirts week. The visit to the laundromat would most likely be a thing he did Saturday morning (even if it killed him to get up before six on the one day he didn’t have to wake up until around ten) and until then, the binders would have to wait. The only thing he hated more was hand washing them and waiting for the damned things to dry was smelling like the cheap lemon zest dishsoap he used when he’d have to wear them. He would rather just wait out the rest of the week for the comforting, heavily artificial “ocean breeze” detergent smell.

Plus, there was no way in hell he’d be able to squeeze in clothes cleaning on the weekdays with his classes the way they were.

 

It turns out, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference if he’d skipped class to do laundry. Teachers had called his name in joint with the word “absent” left and right that week. Stiles assumed it was them all plotting for his demise (which honestly wouldn’t surprise him. Not with the record he had in highschool).

No binders resulted in a nervous Stiles, perpetually slumped back in his seat, arms folded over himself with lots of anxious foot tapping and lame explanations to a substitute who could probably not give any less of a shit. Those in his Anthropology class looked like they wanted to skin him by the end of two hours, and he didn’t even get a chance to whine about it to Scott or Lydia in the fifteen minutes he had between Anthropology and his next class.

It gave him just enough time to sprint across campus with five minutes to spare- in other words, enough time to skid into said clas looking flushed from his cheeks down to his neck, tumble into the nearest open desk and pray the professor didn’t call him out for it.

That class was normal, though the professor, Mr.Harris, looked a bit more annoyed than usual when Stiles started up his own personal orchestra of anxious foot tapping and teeth grinding. On top of one or two pencil drum solos on his textbook.

He was nervous up until the last minute of class, to which Harris decided to hold him after for getting up a split second earlier than the bell going off to release the students.

So he sat there, in Harris’ class, for a solid extra hour of personal one on one time with the guy. It probably would’ve been more if Harris had caught Stiles’ very exaggerated mouth movements directed at the booklet on his table. Most of which were bad recreations of lectures Harris gave earlier in the morning about how good students were ‘on time’ and ‘didn’t run into class late.’

Psh.

He still didn’t even get home until one. Stiles spent a significant portion of time just fighting with his jeep to get him home by then. Well, fighting with the duct tape on the tubes inside her while cooing small praises and pleas.

When Stiles did actually get home, he promptly found himself in a pile of books and papers, most of which were strewn haphazardly on the table and non-occupied cushions on either side of himself. He also had a very colourful conversation about Harris when Scott called him later that afternoon, around the same time Stiles decided _fuck it _and ordered pizza, despite already having a cold slice or two shoved in his fridge somewhere. Most likely a week old but, hey, probably still edible. Maybe.__

__Thursday nearly the same as Wednesday, in all of the worst ways. The only truly notable difference being the two class subjects and no Harris to perpetually shame Stiles for all he’s worth (which seemed to be very little, in Harris’ opinion)._ _

__Spanish, however, was just as much of a pain in the ass, Stiles decided. Of course, he only decided this after getting a grade back for a paper he was vaguely aware of turning in the previous week only to find he got a D on it. He wished he had gotten a C on the paper instead for two reasons. One being so that he was passing. The other was so he could scrawl “culero” across it in huge letters. It was only spanish word he felt he really needed to know for this class._ _

__Somehow he had drifted off topic halfway through and shoved some made up words with ‘ques’ and ‘os’ at the end of them. Which was apparently frowned upon in this day and age. He had, however, left culero out of this one. He really thought such self restraint made him deserving of some extra credit._ _

__It wasn’t until Friday finally came into view that Stiles was completely done with having no binder, the lack of clean clothes and a mound of papers only adding to his honey badger attitude._ _

__Because Friday was, well, laughable._ _

__He got into class (Intro to Criminology) at exactly nine thirty for starters, only mildly aware that the door was slammed shut as soon as he ran in and dropped into his seat. It was his usual teacher, Finstock (he didn’t deserve the “Mr.” in front of his name. That was decided the first day he went out of his way to make some comments about Stiles name in front of his dad when they first looked through the available courses.)_ _

__Finstock had said something about Stiles having “girl trouble”, to which a few people in his lecture hall chuckled at, and Stiles was half tempted to reply with a similar comment on Finstock’s ever lacking quality to even impress one, let alone know what it one feels like. He just really didn’t have the energy to throw himself in a wits battle with a guy whose skull was probably thicker than the paperweight on his desk._ _

__Of course, Stiles was always just generally disgusted with the guy, so when he brought up what the substitute said last week about Stiles, Stiles was on the verge of throwing something. Preferably himself. Out of the nearest window (Defenestration. D word. Although it was english, he considered now scrawling THIS on the Spanish test. Both of the events had made him consider defenestrating himself). Even if it was while his professor was hunched over the desk Stiles was sitting at, half whispering as if that would stop the dozens of other ears in the room from listening._ _

__That’s when Finstock started talking. “So, Stilinski, the sub told me that you made a fuss about your name? What, you think you’re special to just, what, brush it off? You know it’s a legal thing. Your name is. Right?”_ _

__Stiles had been hunched in on himself, one arm strewn over his torso with his thumb and index finger pulling on the string. His other hand was tapping a pencil dangerously close to the edges of Finstock’s fingers, very tempted to see how much damage he could do if the metal bit hit his nails just right. “Rather not talk about it,” was the only thing Stiles managed through his lips before Finstock rumbled a laugh._ _

__“Right, right. Can’t have you getting your panties in a knot, huh Stilinski? You know it’s not my fault you have a name that’s harder to pronounce than half the cities in Germany.” The guy was obviously pleased, his eyes bugged and somewhere between glossy with amusement and also just on the verge of shit-faced just to see how far he could push it._ _

__He had the air of a football athlete whose career plummeted after they were fresh out of highschool._ _

__Stiles only shrugged and slumped back in his desk, eyeing the clock from where he was at. It hugged the corner of the room in a way that had the habit of making Stiles feel as though even time seemed to side against him. He still had half an hour left._ _

__So Finstock rolled his fingers across the wood, palm lifted for a second to slap down again when Stiles made a breathy noise to brush off his comment. “Gotta wonder if you actually focus in this class. You just kinda zone out like you’re only taking it to work around legal issues for your...situation. Not that that would surprise me, actually.”_ _

__The only thing Stiles remembered after that was shoving the chair he was in backwards and tipping it over, paper (quiz, probably) flying off his desk just in time to hear the sound of Finstock yelling at him to sit back down. He had grabbed his bag and ran, actually ran, straight out the door._ _

__Stiles didn’t stop running until the burning in his chest caught up with him, leaving him wheezing and half-slumped with both hands on his knees in the middle of the sidewalk leading back to his jeep._ _

__He was shaking, palms sweaty and fists clenching and unclenching against the fabric of his jeans. He knew Finstock did that just to rile him up and talk him out of that class, but today stung a little more than usual._ _

__Maybe because it reminded him of how far he was from actually being where he wanted to be with all of this._ _

__Stiles ended up back at the apartment an hour before his normal Friday time, the apartment seeming welcoming and non-judgy when he tossed his bag inside and slammed the door shut hard enough to shake a bit of drywall away from its surface. It was a dumb reason to storm out, he knew it. He’s dealt with so much worse regarding his identity and name than that. And he knew that a comment from fucking _Finstock_ of all people should be the last thing he worries about. This did not, how ever, cool his nerves in any way._ _

__An hour later, he was on the phone with Scott, ranting and yelling about his week until Scott muttered an “I’m coming over” and showed up at his door twenty minutes later with take-out and some bad sci fi movies. Bad sci fi movies were, after all, the best sci fi movies._ _

__Stiles reminded himself to keep this in mind the next time Scott brought him books he was definitely not looking for, or forgot his birthday. Both were completely possible._ _

__By the time the take-out was nothing more than bits of rice and stains from orange chicken on the upholstery, Stiles sat on the couch puffy-eyed and grumbly while Scott was happily taking the chance to comment on how dumb Harris and Finstock were. Mainly Finstock, but Harris was definitely someone Scott had a personal grudge against._ _

__Stiles ended up passed out, sprawled somewhere between Scott’s lap and the edge of the couch. When he woke up again, Scott was gone and a note was left on the table that said “Feel better. Reese’s cups on the counter in the kitchen. -Scott.”_ _

__He’d definitely need to give Scott that best friend award eventually._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!! my beta had internet issues so they couldn't edit anything for a day or two.  
> angsty stiles!


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles wound up at the laundromat right when the lights were flicked on. 

He had two bags on him, one for his actual clothes and binders and another for his blankets and pillow cases. That, and a convenient roll of quarters Scott had ended up giving him on the day they went to the arcade.

Normally he would never actively take this much over to the small wash place, but when the alarm was blaring at five thirty in the morning he was _definitely_ sure he did not want to do it again anytime soon. Even if he knew that “soon” ended up being a week and a half or two weeks later, to which Stiles would continue to put it off for later. 

“Greenleaf Wash” was plastered on the sign at the front door in blue, bold letters. The door itself was a rustic red with a glass frame with a small bell on the interior that jingled when Stiles pushed the door open. Even though he was familiar with the almost overly sanitary look of the place, their tidiness still managed to surprise him. When he first heard "laundromat", he always pictured more of a dusty, nobody-wanted-to-work-here-to-begin-with vibe. 

This particular laundromat was practically glistening white over everything; the floors, the dividers for the actual machine units, the walls- the whole shabang. If it weren’t for the blue tiles that ticked along the floor and blue benches that sat on the thick wall of the dividers, it would look almost like some type of hospital gone wrong. Or a science experiment. Not that the blue did anything but add something that wasn’t fucking blinding to a man when they walked in. At least the washers and dryers were of the steel variety. 

The only thing that broke the blue and white monotony was a red door that sat wedged in the very back, stationed snugly between two walls of a corridor that spanned about one blue tile back. If Stiles had to guess, it was the easiest thing to see in the place if someone wanted to get out in a hurry. 

He most definitely did. Not that it would be happening with all the shit he had to wash.

Stiles breathed in the smell of detergent as he walked past several hanging signs. Most said something providing the load times and machine usage, but Stiles’ personal section was tucked as far away from anyone else as possible. 

He had the roll of quarters wedged sideways between his lips, both bags tossed on the blue bench that sat diagonally to the washer and dryer. It was only when his hands were free that he started picking at the paper wrapper, grumbling every now and then about his nails not being long enough to peel back the edges, or how one coin would probably fall out and then the rest would and of course it would sound like World War Three came around. He’s done it once, and trying to peer over and scout out how many faces were listening in on a bunch of coins being dropped was not a good experience.

Especially since Stiles did that weird neck thing that made him look like he had a triple chin, accompanied by a smile and nose flare that basically describes his emotion at that point in time.

Luckily, this Saturday proved to be a bit more hopeful when the coins tinkered out and into his palm without any backstabbing noises or just generally not making it into his hand.

Stiles shoved a bag and a half of clothes into the washer once the coins were dispensed, most of his energy going into throwing himself against the bubbling mass of fabrics so it actually _went in._ He’s pretty sure the lady at the counter was concerned for his well being, but hey. It worked. 

 

He spent the next hour sitting on that same blue bench with an empty bag, a half full one and a phone game he'd gotten under the "stress relievers" category in the app store. It was titled “Flappy Duck.” 

Stress relief his ass. 

About ten minutes in, Stiles was yelling at his phone and making obscene gestures towards that bastard duck. He spent the next fifty minutes alternating between picking at his nails and casting fleeting glances at anyone who walked through the door. 

There was also some mumble-karaoke at one point, Stiles hissing and gasping along with a couple of very excited pop songs, but Stiles would never own up to that out loud. 

When the load was switched out and his binders and other delicates thrown in, Stiles ended up passing out, and consequently waking up to a series of shrill beeps from the machines. 

 

He ended up getting back to his apartment with the almighty smelling ocean breezy goodness that was clean laundry.

Then he promptly fell asleep folding said laundry.

Somewhere, whatever gods were out there must’ve been laughing when Stiles woke up surrounded in a pile of still-warm clothes and blankets coiled around his body like a protective cocoon. On the floor. With his ass in the air and face smooshed into the carpet. 

Needless to say, Stiles coming to and sliding himself so he was fully on his stomach was an experience he never wanted to have again. Not when he went to the bathroom and saw that he had received a red streak of rugburn across the right side of his face for such foolish antics. 

His laundry went from _not_ folded to _kind of folded_ and thrown onto his also kind of made bed about fifteen minutes after his bathroom break. A fresh binder was his best friend almost instantaneously, replacing the several stained t-shirts that were bundled up under the red hoodie (which he, regretfully, had not thought to wash). That made it clear that the hoodie was a no-go for his bookstore trip. He was sick of it after this week anyway.

He settled on a Starwars t-shirt with yoda on it and plaid longsleeve. 

It was only a half of an hour until the store actually opened at noon, so Stiles busied himself with messing with the settings on his phone, alternating between a japanese emoticon keyboard and sending Scott a bunch of dumb photos he saved when he still had internet.

The very same internet that he would be devouring in thirty minutes.  
__

Stiles not-so-casually showed up right as Derek was flipping the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open.’ The look he got was somewhere between blatant horror and amusement, save for the scowly eyebrows that skyrocketed and then furrowed when Stiles followed him into the store.

They didn’t actually _say_ anything to each other, though. Stiles offered a mixed smile of _sorry about your coffee_ and _I’m pretty sure you don’t want me here this early but sometimes life is full of disappointments and I don't terribly mind being one._

Derek only replied with more bushy-brow furrowing and a down quirk of his mouth at one corner. Stiles was pretty sure he heard a small grunt, but he rather wanted to think that it wasn’t related to him.

When Stiles realized it was just them in the store, his panic mode was flipped all the way to a ten. It was at about a two or three before.

The Panic Mode, however, consisted of _very_ obvious glances to Derek, who only occupied his time stacking books or dusting off shelves with the pads of his fingers, then scowling at them like the dust personally offended him.

Though, with all the shining conversations they'd had thus far, dust offending Derek didn’t seem odd in the slightest.

Stiles had wriggled into a chair tucked as far away from the counter as possible, back turned to the entry door and body hunched in on itself. He pulled out his phone. The little wifi bar popped up immediately, resulting in a pleased look on Stiles face- until he tried to open up the browser.

And was met with ‘password required.’

Shit.

Stiles definitely didn’t spend the next five minutes craning his neck to peer over his shoulder, his own already arched eyebrows lifting as high as possible and mouth slightly open, ready to talk. To ask him for the password. Just the password. 

Only, he backed out every time Derek shot him a look that was usually saved for old people or noisy children. 

Or, evidently, Stiles too. 

Another ten minutes later, consisting of Stiles and Derek dancing around the unsaid question, Derek stopped what he was doing behind the front desk and growled. Actually _growled_ , and set the book he was holding a bit too forcefully on the counter by the register. It startled Stiles enough that the phone tumbled from his hands, body whipping around in what looked like the result of a car accident to locate Derek’s unamused face staring at him. 

“If you need something, just ask,” was all Derek said before going back to silently judging him. More or less an open face of ‘I know you’re a dumbass so please let me work.’

Before Stiles could even fend for his own honor, he blurted out “When will Isaac get here?” Which definitely didn’t imply that he didn’t like Derek’s broody...sunshine filled company. 

At least until the almost pout he got made him regret his word choice immediately.

“He doesn’t work today,” Derek replied, one brow raising when Stiles repeated the words to himself. “Problem?”

Someone should slap a meme on Derek’s face and call it a day.

“No, just...how do you even get customers?” 

Foot-in-mouth action was a go, apparently.

Derek was squinting at him, right hand skimming over the back of what looked like a Discovery Channel funded book. It had a zebra on the cover. “What?”

Stiles’ rose his hands in a "well, look" gesture, arms flailing with a half circle movement from a distance to where Derek was standing, whose body was mostly hidden behind the counter. “You’re all ‘grr I’m going to stare at you and not say anything.’ Just wondering how, like, old people don’t have a heart attack and kids don’t run out of the store crying. I mean it’s kind of terrifying the way you just stare and stare and then you do this thing with your face like you smelled something bad and-”

“Hey-”

“-and I’m not saying that’s weird or anything, well, it kind of is, but that’s not the point. You just give off that line of somewhere between bad cop and angsty super villain, which might be kind of hot if-”

“ _Hey._ ” 

“...yep there it is again.” 

Derek looked really, well, amused actually. Scary, but amused. 

The two of them were quiet for a couple of moments, Derek alternating between his eyebrow lifts and mouth half-quirking, like he didn’t actually want to be caught smiling, before it would duck back down into a tight lipped frown. 

Stiles relied on clearing his throat to fix the issue. 

What Derek said actually up saying made Stiles choke on his spit, since the next (and only) thing he heard was: “I didn’t scare you off yet.”

They both shared a look of absolute horror, Stiles for his sudden spit-dribble session and Derek for realizing how that could be been interpreted, since Stiles had immediately resorted to pointing an accusing finger at Derek before tucking his hand back into himself protectively. “Still fucking scary. Not as scary as the all-nighter Scott pulled for our senior exams, but you’re up there.” He mumbled, absently wishing he had a straw or something to busy his hands instead of ringing them around the fabric of his shirt. 

“Do you want coffee?” Derek mused, though his look was still as flat as ever. 

Stiles nodded and five minutes later was met with fresh (but still somehow burnt) coffee. With sugar. He took one sip and mumbled something about the taste, only to look up and meet his gaze with Derek who was holding his hand out.

Was he expecting a treat or something?

Derek caught on and huffed, the word “money” silent on his lips, to which Stiles realized and began to fumble with his wallet, pulling out a couple of dollars and practically slapping it into Derek’s hand. He definitely didn’t miss the way Derek’s fingers tensed when Stiles own accidentally hit his palm. Nope. 

And he most definitely didn’t notice the way his whole _body_ tensed when Stiles whipped around to face what were Derek’s quickly retreating shoulders, one hand spiking out and catching the black fabric around his wrist. 

Derek looked ready to kill. 

Stiles hand retracted and shook furiously, a nervous laugh spilling from his mouth before gesturing said cursed hand to his phone. “I uh, I need your password. You guys have to stop changing it or give me, like, a special VIP pass or something.”

Derek didn’t even bother turning around when he held out his hand this time. Stiles was pretty sure he could just, y’know, type it in himself, but Derek seemed like he wanted to do anything else but actually talk to Stiles again after that mess.

So he dropped his shitty smartphone into Derek’s palm, fumbling anxiously with the hem of his shirt while the sounds of Derek’s fingers ticked numbers into the password protected wifi of their store.

Stiles knew that the password was unlocked when he heard the little chime telling him the internet was alive, much like his dreams now were, so why Derek still had his phone for even ten seconds after was beyond him. 

Only when he got it back did he notice that Derek had been staring at the url for his blog- that he was trying to load before. And, boy, did Derek look both confused and rather worried to see “babycopblues” flutter on the screen with some obnoxious galaxy cat background loading behind it. 

Luckily he gave it back before the words actually showed up. 

Stiles mumbled a thanks before he spun back around, elbows propped on the table and mouth refinding its connection to the rim of the cup of coffee. Derek walked off with a small ‘hmph’, although it was not until after some serious life choice reflections. Probably. 

He yawned into the void of coffee, fingers dashing quietly over the screen to check on messages his blog usually got. His last entry was about not being dead, so, he had to fix that.

It was pretty easy to type up a new update.

**_babycopblues - saturday - 12:40 PM_ **

**still not dead!! currently at my fave place sucking down their wifi like--nvm. (* Ŏ∀Ŏ)  
you guys know about finstock already but he was like...a mega-douche this week. brought up my name ‘n shit and i legit ran out of his class lol. he’s probably going to maim me. or make me do a shit ton of pushups next week. Both would hurt like hell.**

**if anyone is a part of my youth group pls dont forget about our contest! ik im not a big part of it but it’ll mean a lot if you join.**

**i’ll drop a link below. (✿ฺ◡ฺ‿ฺ◡ฺ)  
miss you guys!!**

Stiles ended up forgetting the link and writing a follow up post with it, among numerous apologies and cutesy emoticons Lydia had saved to his hotbar, who demanded he use them for his blog since he _did_ have baby in the name. 

It only took ten minutes for his youth group to shoot him a message, briefly saying thanks and that they’re excited about the entries. 

“Contest?” 

The words startled Stiles, whose phone found the floor in five seconds flat as both arms went rigid for what felt like, the small object dropping between his fingers and landing with a thick smack on the floor. He let out a series of muffled curses, neck craning up to glare at-

Well, the last thing he expected to see was Derek looking confused and slightly exposed. Like he overstepped a boundary or something. 

That expressions had already snapped back to Derek's comfortable semi-scowl when Stiles returned his phone to the table, patting it and mumbling apologies before lifting his gaze to watch the guy. He was standing with several books in his hands, mouth slightly parted and brow furrowed. 

Stiles felt his own throat bob, heart still stammering as the words “How did you…” worked their way out. 

Derek’s features went back to its full on permascowl immediately. It’s like his face is always on autopilot. “You mouth words when you read,” he shrugged, glaring past Stiles after a minute.

So Derek was… watching his mouth. 

What?

It was Stiles turn to glare, teeth worrying at his bottom lip before he started mumbling. “I’m part of a group that helps people my age and in high school get through some...shit in their life. We’re holding a contest, well, have been, for our group logo. The winner gets a meet and greet with the person who started this whole thing.” Stiles waved his hand around as he spoke while Derek just stood there, unwavering despite the mound of books he was holding. 

Stiles continued talking. “And me, I guess. But Coralwolf is pretty much the big star. She makes motivational mini comics, and way back when I was still in highschool they got me through some stuff. I talked to her for awhile, we went back and forth on her forum, before I told her about why I started reading and, well. We made a group for it.” He shrugged again and then, looked back to his phone. “It’s not really a big deal.”

Derek blinked once. Twice. Three times. “Huh” was the only sound he made before he turned around, followed by a “cool.” 

Derek definitely didn’t just call Stiles’ group cool. No fucking way. 

And that’s definitely not at all what he thought about when he went back to his apartment around six. 

Or what he said when he texted Scott. 

Or when he texted Coralwolf. 

**From Stiles: just got home. super hot guy called our comic cool!!!!! he never talks. ever. this is AWESOME ・(￣∀￣)・:*:**

He got a reply about ten minutes later. 

**From Corawoofㅇㅅㅇ: rad!! :D sounds like u have a new crush tho.**

**From Stiles: …. . … .oh no. no way nope.**

**From Corawoofㅇㅅㅇ: uh huh. thats what you said ab lydia too...but anyways. ttyl stiles, gl with ur boy problems!!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and the plot thickens)  
> amazing thanks to my beta who makes this thing understandable!! xo
> 
> next chapter will be a fun one. :]


	7. Chapter 7

Five in the morning on a Sunday would usually appeal to no one, except maybe some early bird church goers. But on this particular Sunday, it was met excitedly by a certain nosey uncle who knew way too much about his nephew’s personal schedule. It was of no surprise to Derek when he heard the louder-than-necessary rapping of knuckles on his wooden bedroom door. 

Derek’s face hung near the ground, hands automatically moving every so often from the diamond shape they assumed to outward stretches. Push ups were apart of his routine, but his uncle’s early knocking was not. He heard the sound of his uncle making amused noises and guffaws from the doorway and pushed noticeably harder than necessary off of the floor into a squat. 

He opened the door with a sense of annoyance- one which increased when he saw was Peter dressed up in nothing more than night pants and a thick sweater, chuckling to himself. Derek decided that the attire and cadence didn’t suit him.

“Something you need?” Derek asked gruffly as he pushed himself onto his feet.

 _Five in the morning_ was not the time to be inviting anyone into your room. And Derek felt in no mood to extend any such invitation of entry.

But Peter felt no need to take up any of those kinds of niceties. He stepped into the room, humming as he fiddled with paint that was chipping off of the wall. Derek wanted to smack his hands away.

He instead used his bare foot to nudge a paint can on the floor away from Peter all the while shoving his hands deep within the pockets of his sweatpants. He cleared his throat, mumbling the name “Peter.” 

His uncle looked up, a brow quirked and mouth forming into an annoyingly pleasant grin for someone who didn’t sleep at all that night. Derek knew Peter mustn’t have slept, not with how clean his hair looked, contrasting with the mess his own was from tossing and turning in his sleep.  
“I’ve been thinking,” Peter began, and Derek had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something to stop him before he started. “about the store. What’s today’s date, October eleventh?”

Derek nodded, moving to poise himself in front of a mess-covered canvas. 

The grin broadened, Peter’s eyes glinting as he continued. “We need to get more customers to the store. With Halloween coming up and all…”

“You want to throw a party, don’t you?” Derek tossed the words a bit forcefully, but by Peter’s sudden look of false surprise, his words were an instantaneous regret. 

“Well, no, I was going to say put up some fliers but that sounds like a fantastic idea.”

By the look on Peter’s face, Derek knew his own must have twisted something fit with aggressive, crazy-eyed staring. Peter only cooed. 

“Peter, this town is not going to come to a party that is set up in a bookstore with half of your grandparent’s collection in it.” While Derek busied himself doing anything else but looking at the figure in his doorway, Peter only hummed again and offered a series of ‘tsks’ when Derek shoved around some blank canvases and books scattered on his floor. 

At first glance, the room probably looked like a rat’s nest. It was relatively small since Peter had decided to enforce that “his loft, big room his” rule. Derek’s room had a queen size bed in the center, pushed back far against the wall so all three sides were open to the room. That left a weird squared out U shape for a bookshelf on the left, crammed with textbooks and sketchpads (and the occasional love novel his uncle insisted on buying him in there somewhere) while to the right was a pile of art in waiting. 

Most of it was really only small buckets of paint and an easel that had seen better days. It was coated in splatters of black and red paint, a face (or the remanence of one) all but smeared under the globs of paint.

Aside from that, the room was floored with wood and had a smokey wall paint. A window sat dutifully behind the easel, probably to remind Derek that the sun was only now coming up. That, and he could be spending his time outside right now. Away from Peter.

“I’m sure there will be some reason for them to come,” Peter offered along with an idle movement of his hand that washed over Derek’s general direction.

That was probably the only compliment he’d get from Peter for the next year, unless Peter decided he wanted something else from Derek before then.

Not that it phased Derek. He was little inclined to do anything more than grunt and shoot off another glare. “Are you suggesting I throw a party with suggestive clothing, all short of dancing in front of the store?” 

Peter grinned. “I think the dancing would earn you bonus points, and maybe even a pay raise.”

“I live here. You can’t bribe me.”

“Ah, but there’s always Isaac.” 

Shit. 

Derek resolved to pushing out a disappointed sigh, shoulders slouching ever so slightly to the realization that, yes, there would most definitely be a party to set up for Halloween. A party he had absolutely no idea how to go about making. 

Because of course Peter would suggest it, then offer an “I expect good things from you!” before walking out.

Which, in short, meant Derek had to ask for help.  
-  
That’s how he ended up feeling during his jog. Not even the crisp, cool air that early autumn mornings offered could calm the overwhelming feeling of regret that pooled within Derek’s chest. He despised the way his uncle only had to snap his fingers then, poof, Derek was at his disposal.

It was the price he paid to live under his roof, he guessed. 

When the watch on Derek’s wrist read five fifty, he resolved to make the last ten minutes of his half hour run a brisk jog. It was a feeble attempt to wash away the uncomfortable feeling of knowing what he was going to do. Not that it helped much. He arrived at Grounds for Thought with a new coat of sweat on his forehead and no plausible ideas on how to avoid the oncoming party. His face, ward from the outside world, was met by two very familiar bodies as he entered.

One was staring. The other was just smiling with pursed lips like she knew something he didn’t. She probably did. She probably knew how to avoid the bullshit his uncle threw him into, and that was knowledge he’d have given up his arm for in that particular moment.

The door let out a jingle as it closed behind Derek, his hands firmly shoved into his pockets the moment the guy-Stiles- whipped around to hide his face. He cocked a brow upwards, casting a look to Lydia who shrugged and continued to smile. 

Lydia skipped the general customer dialogue entirely this time, and started with a “Good morning, Derek. The usual?” 

He wasn’t really sure why she considered it a usual. He only came here on Sunday and Wednesday mornings, but he nodded anyways and clenched his jaw a little tighter at the way Stiles’ shoulders jerked around while handling the coffee machines. 

He must’ve been watching for awhile because the next thing he realized was the drink on the table and Stiles fumbling (more like scraping) his fingers over the hem of his apron. 

Lydia’s hundred watt smile went from perky and bright to thoughtful in a flash, palm thrusting out to meet the edge of the counter. “Derek,” she pushed out her hand and he looked down to her waiting fingers, his own hands in his pockets digging for a twenty. He gave it to Lydia, muttering “keep the change.” 

She looked pleasantly surprised, smile returning as Derek took his drink and watched Stiles duck his head behind something. “Can I talk to him?” Derek muttered, Lydia casting a look over her shoulder to Stiles who was humming something that was on the verge of too loud. 

“Are you sure about that? He’s not exactly ‘awake’ yet,” Lydia purred, but waved a hand despite the warning. “Stiles, break, ten.” 

Stiles nearly leapt over the counter as he endeavoured to dive into the room with old looking books and tables. The art of avoidance was probably more suited to Derek. Stiles had a knack for the ‘meerkat dodging predatory birds’ look, peering around the corner and ducking just as Derek began moving along the glass case full of baked goods. 

When he rounded the corner, Stiles’ furious stacking of books went from fiery to clumsy, struggling against his new rhythm of half dropping each one.

Lydia was _not_ kidding, it seemed. Not that she looked like the type of person to joke about that sort of thing. Then again, he wasn’t sure who would joke about that. No matter.

Derek sighed, going to tap Stiles and involuntarily jabbing two fingers into the back of Stiles’ shoulder, to which he received a yelp and a flurry of books launching themselves to the floor with renewed vigor. 

Stiles spun around just as Derek stepped back, the scowl he was infamous for deepening on his face. “Hey,” was all the sound he could offer at the sight of a jittery Stiles whipping back around to kneel and pick up the books. 

He wasn’t really sure if he should apologize for trying to be friendly. It was decided he wouldn’t when Stiles restacked the books for a second time, then found it in his heart to turn around and actually look at Derek.

Who was still scowling. Maybe pouting. 

“I need a- a favour, actually.” Derek mumbled the words against the cup in his hand, white froth lapping at his upper lip before he brushed it away with his thumb.

That definitely got Stiles attention. His face slowly changed from his look of tired surprise to a doe-eyed, confused sort of surprised about what just happened. 

Derek caught on after a short delay, throat clearing and head shaking. “Not--no not like...like _that_. Books BeGone, we uh. My uncle wants to throw a party.” 

The breath he’d been holding in for what felt like the majority of the morning slipped out in a heavy sigh just as Stiles face dawned with realization. “And you have absolutely no idea how to throw one.” 

Lydia chose that moment in particular to peek around the corner, a delightfully mischievous expression clear on her face. “And you think he knows how to throw one?” She called, causing Stiles to puff up considerably with his hands swinging to and fro in the air. 

He looked like he was about to argue when Lydia only laughed, lips pursing into a small smile. “Your nineteenth birthday with laser tag doesn’t count.”

That’s all it took for Stiles to shut his mouth and slouch back, hands stuffing into the pockets on the front of the apron.

Derek held back the urge to smirk, mouth only twitching in the slightest. “I wanted to ask him if he could...blog about it, actually. Pe-my uncle decided we need more customers, so...” Derek trailed off and shrugged, going back to sipping (more like gnawing) at his drink while Stiles and Lydia exchanged glances to one another. 

She was raising her brows up and down while Stiles made mute motions with his hands, shoulders rising and falling in correspondence. 

This was most definitely a bad idea. 

Except that it wasn’t. He realised he must have made the right decision when Lydia spun back around and all but beamed at him. “I’ll plan the party and Stiles will blog about it so much that you’ll have to think of a way to pay him back.” The follow up wasn’t said out loud, but when Lydia turned and put a hand up to her own lips and mouthed _maybe with a kiss_ , Derek choked on his drink the exact moment Stiles threw a book (which Lydia ducked under and watched flop open on the tile floor). 

Stiles looked utterly destroyed when Derek’s gaze flicked back to him, his face flushed and mouth flipping back and forth between worried child to a sailor who was about to string together a new language by just cursing. 

It seemed the worried child look won out, but not without a hefty sigh followed by a “shit, fine.” 

Derek all but smiled into his cup. 

Lydia, seemingly pleased with herself, leaned on the book cart and propped her head up with both hands on her chin, murmuring thoughtfully as Stiles grumbled in the background. “When is it?” she asked. Derek took a moment to think.

“Halloween. We’ll be opening at noon and the party will start around closing time.” He shrugged, free hand waving in a dismissive semi circle. “My uncle left all of this up to me.”

Stiles’ mouth twitched from where he still stood, though his hands somehow found another loose something to fiddle with while considering everything. Lydia only nodded and spun around on one of her heels (actual high heels. Derek couldn’t imagine why she wore them so early) and sauntered back off to the sound of the store’s door swinging open with a delighted jingle. “Stiles, give him our numbers so we can keep in touch!” She called this out before her voice fell quiet, assuming the role of dutiful employee yet again.

Derek had turned back to see Stiles all but _melt_ into the floorboards, his entire persona having gone from upbeat and happy to nervous and kind of withdrawn. 

Not that he had been anything other than nervous and clumsy for this entire conversation. Confused, maybe.

Derek sighed and pulled out his phone from his jeans (which he changed into before leaving) and carefully unlocked it to pull up the “add new contacts” section of it.

Then he handed it to Stiles.

Which was a mistake because the next thing he saw was the phone on the floor and Stiles spewing a bunch of words that were not suitable for the elderly. 

Derek choked on his coffee for a second time, biting back an amused laugh that sort of devolved into a snort. 

Stiles was apologizing profusely, and Derek only shook his head, smirk halfway hidden behind the cup. “It’s fine,” was all he offered before Stiles nodded and typed (more like battled) the number of Lydia and himself separately into his phone. 

He only started to get nervous when his phone buzzed and Stiles’ face scrunched up into something similar to that of smelling a bad smell. 

The phone was shoved back in Derek’s face, dangling between Stiles’ thumb and index finger. Derek took it and stared at the screen covered with one singular text already on full display.

 **From Coraﾟ･✿ヾ╲(｡◕‿◕｡)╱✿･ﾟ: _swear to god derek if you don’t get me a coffee while you’re there i will BITE YOU. and dont think about throwing your coffee away before u come home because i will know. >:( plus peter told me and he said to bring back a mocha coffee for him. you know what i want. love u._**

Stiles seemed happy to go back behind the counter at that point, having disappeared while Derek was reading (and huffing).

A little old man walked away from the counter after getting his drink while Derek ignored the way Lydia raised a brow and rolled her eyes. Derek simply huffed and ordered both a mocha coffee, hot and a caramel crunch frappuccino. 

 

Stiles turned around at some point and just shot Derek a look, then the cup, before blurting out “Damn, you thirsty?” and catching the scathing look Derek delivered to him in return. Not that it did much to begin with. 

“No. My sister,” he decided on, and Stiles’ face scrunched up again before turning around and making the drinks. Lydia was nice enough to give him a cup holder without the side-smirk, but from the look she had, she definitely wanted to. 

Stiles popped the drinks into the cardboard cup holder, Derek placing his in it as well. Stiles also put a cup of ice, just ice, in the empty slot, claiming it would keep the entire thing from tipping over. 

This time when Derek paid, he gave Lydia the normal amount and all but thrust a twenty into Stiles’ unexpecting hand. Before the guy could protest, Derek waved a hand as thanks and walked away with the cup holder and drinks to the sound of Stiles going “holy shit” and the feeling of Lydia grinning into his back. 

It was decided that texting both of them could wait another couple of days, Derek being a master at prolonging the inevitable and all.

Especially when that inevitable would result in a party that would, most likely, bring in a whole new breed of customers Derek was _not_ , in any way, shape or form, ready to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and you know you messed up when you accidentally delete the chapter....
> 
> bUT AGAIN  
> DEREK CHAPTER
> 
> https://i.gyazo.com/bc33264cc363e9373381039bbc1e4b1f.png and also this
> 
> emotionally constipated derek+meerkat stiles at your service.


	8. Chapter 8

Generally speaking, when a hot guy hands you his phone to put your number into you’re supposed to accept it and not make a complete fool of yourself in the process. Stiles was never taught that particular life lesson. 

The scene he caused (and the one Lydia forced upon him) had earned him not only an exhaustive scolding over the importance of manors from Lydia but also the paranoia that came from someone having a way to contact him without him being able to contact them. It was very secret agent-esque, the one way communication, but much less sexy. 

At least he got twenty dollars out of the whole thing. It was almost compensation for how awful the entire event had been. And it did allow him to buy pizza that Monday after work. Everyone knows that pizza is the ultimate compensation.

Tuesday also brought along a paycheck that left Stiles kissing the flimsy sheet of paper and murmuring sweet nothings into its creaseless surface. He was praising both the paper itself and the thought of actually having money for both his apartment needs and the small amount he’d be able to stash into his savings for surgery.

His classes went the same way as they typically do on Wednesday, only better, much to Stiles’ surprise. Harris only sassed him once and kept him over for a half hour for ‘being late’ (in Stiles’ defense, he was only late because his jeep didn’t start so he had to run what felt like forty miles to campus). When he actually showed up, one of the kids in his lecture hall (one who picked at his teeth way too much) informed him he looked like he got into a fight with a bear and lost. Stiles strongly implied to the kid that he had, in fact, fought a bear, thank him very much for noticing, and he had, in fact, lost.

If that bear were his alarm clock and the jeep’s stop and go combination, then yeah, sure, that was totally accurate. He lost that battle, like, back at the start of freshman year during his high school days.

Both his Anthropology and English class provided little entertainment, but they did provide just enough homework for the week that the moment Stiles got back to his apartment, the coffee table was littered with a variety of unfinished papers and printouts of textbooks he was given during the beginning of the year for his class. He made himself a promise to not lug back any textbook weighing more than a small cat during the first week of school, which is when he found out that his Criminology and Anthropology books combined weighed about twenty pounds. 

It doesn’t sound like much, but in the dead of winter (and late fall, apparently,) without his jeep working it left him with an actual load of bullshit to carry on his back for the entire three days he was back and forth between classes.

Which is how he came to own _at least_ six binders (and one folder) full of various copies of both textbooks and documents he managed to print out during his quiet time with Harris, or Finstock on a “good” day.

That would be a “good” day involving Finstock saying something along the lines of “Say, Stilinski, we haven’t had a proper male bonding experience between student and teacher. Why don’t you stick around and clean off the gum from under these desks so I don’t have to.” 

Well, the last bit was all Stiles, but it suited the situation. 

It was around two when the sound of his laptop hissing at him from a paper he was writing on word (of all things) began to grate on his ears. He was working on an essay of the human mind for Anthropology on one tab, while the other contained a detailed synopsis on Why Nobody Should Ever Major in Criminology for English.

But, hey, his English professor _did_ say write about whatever you want, as long as it’s school appropriate. 

Stiles was sprawled over his couch, one foot dangling over the creaky armrest that had a pizza stain from Scott on it, laptop wedged between the crook of where his leg was bent and stomach sucked in enough to create a toasty spot to both see and read what he was typing on the screen. Some notes were taped on the back of the couch cushion with just enough space that Stiles could crane his neck sideways and read whatever was closest to the bottom of the pages. 

He’d probably have a kink in his neck the next time he went to sit up from the way his head was jarred between his shoulders, but it was the price to pay for trying to be comfy while working on an essay he just _knows _his professor is going to skim over. Which is most certainly why he added a couple sentences involving just what exactly Jersey Shore meant to the general population of America. And also why Kazoo Sonata in C Major as played by Andrew Jackson Jihad is probably the best kazoo sonata someone will ever listen to.__

__It was halfway through the typing of that particular masterpiece of literary art that the phone decided to bust a nut and start vibrating rapidly on the table, to which Stiles screamed (read: let out a manly yelp) at and all but shoved his laptop down to his already unfolding legs. The moment he picks up his phone and notices the unknown number name stapled onto the small screen, Stiles all but calls the person back to give them a piece of his mind on how rude it is to text someone in the middle of their homework._ _

__That is until he opened the text, to which a simple _hey._ was found staring back at him, judging him for his freakout. _ _

__Who the fuck texts “hey” without context._ _

__Who the fuck do they think they are._ _

__This is the United States of fucking America._ _

__We aren’t heathens here._ _

__Society has progressed enough to have it universally expected that when you text someone at a new number, you text them and include your god damned name._ _

__What fucking egg sends a message like that._ _

__And just like that another text popped up with _it’s derek.__ _

__Ah._ _

__That scowly asshole does._ _

__Stiles snorted and chewed absently on his lower lip, mumbling something about skinning him the next time he sees him._ _

__**From Stiles: _jesus christ ur really lucky i know how to control my limbs or else u would have been buying me a new laptop :///_** _ _

__The reply he got was only delayed by three wonderful minutes after Stiles added Derek into his phone contacts._ _

__**From Derek: _not my fault you can’t control your body._** _ _

__Actually it is, but Stiles wasn’t going to say that. Not when he still whole-heartedly denied the fact that Derek was anymore than some hot dude who worked at the one place that has internet which actually works. No matter how often Coralwolf may pester him about it. Or how much Lydia seems to side-eye him every time Derek is mentioned or just so happens to show up right when Stiles and her were talking about him._ _

__So instead, he replied with a simple _what is it u need bcause im kind of swamped w/ work rn._ Not that he actually went back to working on it while waiting for a reply.   
**From Derek: _about party plans. lydia said she wants you to take photos when you’re at the bookstore on saturday. she’d come herself but she says she’s busy._**_ _

__**From Stiles: _ugh ok fine w/e. i’ll use my shitty phone for some even shittier pictures so lydia can deck out ur uncles little ball of wifi wonder._** _ _

__**From Derek: _it’s a bookstore, stiles. you’re legitimately the only one who comes in for the wifi. not even isaac uses it._** _ _

__**From Stiles: _don’t 4get your shitty coffee. u need to stop burning it man i’m surprised i haven’t died yet._** _ _

__Somewhere between Stiles picking at Derek’s uncle’s store and Derek’s thrifty replies, Stiles managed to do even less work than he planned and ended up shooting Derek a _srsly gotta do work rn bug me later_ before throwing his phone back on the table- vibration turned off. _ _

__He managed to pump out the rest of his Anthropology essay in about two hours of solid work, one hour of passing out while still typing (and waking up to a mess of jibberish not even Chewbacca could translate) and then another solid hour of reformatting the entire essay so the periods were fourteen point font and the spacing was a little larger._ _

__Which landed him at about six fifteen in the evening with the TV on and a show about nature playing in the background. All he could really focus on was his phone blinking like a sad little beacon on the edge of the table._ _

__Stiles would normally take pity on it and reply to whoever was trying to text him, but after almost an entire six hours of just typing, his fingers were basically begging him to stop. That, and he couldn’t actually _feel_ his fingers as it so currently stood._ _

__Which is actually how he fell asleep that nice, contemplating replying to whoever was texting him. Except it more or less ended in him slumped over the couch with one arm thrown out, fingers clasped on the table which he was trying to drag over._ _

__He didn’t end up replying until the following day._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is why we can't have nice things.


	9. Chapter 9

Wednesday

2:30 PM

**From Derek: _stiles im pretty sure you will survive for another ten minutes while we get a game plan together._**

**_seriously, stiles? it’s been twenty minutes check your phone. i’m also quite sure your professors will fail you either way._ **

**_for fucks sake stiles it three. look. at. your. phone. trust me i know my texts are boring my sister tells me all the time._ **

**_stiles lydia is yelling at me._ **

**_STILES._ **

**_for fucks sake._ **

**_i hope you never offer your help to someone or else they may be waiting twenty years for A FUCKING TEXT._ **

**_you’re paying double for your coffee on saturday._ **

___

Thursday

6:05 AM

**From Stiles: _sssshiiiiitt sorry i ended up turning my phone OFF u kno. that button that silences notifications? yeah i silenced u buddy._**

**_and for your information i’m not failing any classes. harris just hates me so i let him know through my ~~~~words~~~~ i hate him 2._ **

8:00 AM

**From Derek: _glad to know you respect your elders._**

**From Stiles: _ive respected u plenty haven’t i._**

**From Derek: _remind me not to wake you up the next time you fall asleep in my store._**

**From Stiles: _rude ah. but hey that means free wifi._**

**From Derek: _it shuts off at midnight. :P_**

**From Stiles: _ugh……...g2g profe lookin salty af._**

**From Derek: _remind me to direct you to the dictionaries next time._**

**_also im not texting you while you’re in lecture hall. go back to work._ **

8:30 AM

**From Stiles: _ffs finally she stopped glaring at me for ten minutes. and jsut because u dont reply doesnt mean i wont not bother you._**

**_this is ur fault i hope u know._ **

**_this is why we cant have nice things._ **

9:30 AM

**From Stiles: _hey derek when you’re scowling do ur eyebrows cry a little bit._**

**_im pretty sure i can feel you scowling at me rn._ **

**_dont ignore me im precious_ **

10:00 AM

**From Stiles: _are you still ignoring me._**

**_derek please u want my help at least entertain me during spanish._ **

**_i dont even like spanish._ **

**_derek. :(((((((_ **

 

12:00 PM

**From Stiles: _she took my phone._**

**From Derek: _look at that you survived._**

**From Stiles: _dont be a dick. hey arent you at work now._**

**From Derek: _um, yeah?_**

**From Stiles: _wtf u yell at me for texting u during class and here u are USING UR UNCLES TIME AND MONEY to text me hey wait is this ur way of saying im more fun._**

**From Derek: _you’re right i should be working._**

**From Stiles: _dEREK YOU ASSHOLE._**

___

Friday

8:00 AM

**From Stiles: _i woke up late also THNX FOR NOT REPLYING TO ME LAST NIGHT. wtf do u go to bed at like 7 or something u old man._**

**_i mean if ur still angry i didnt text u for six hours after calling u an asshole that’s w/e ur usually pretty angry. i was doing a spanish essay and psychology shit._ **

9:30 AM

**From Stiles: _finstock is a dick._**

**From Derek: _i shouldn’t be texting you right now but finstock? gym shorts finstock?_**

**From Stiles: _omg when does he wear gym shorts I HOPE THEY’RE PINK. also its bobby finstock but u kno he looks like he should be a george or something_**

**From Derek: _yeah that’s gym shorts finstock._**

**From Stiles: _oH MY GOD_**

11:45 AM

**From Stiles: _finstock took my fucking phone AND HELD ME AFTER FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES. wtf do these professors think they’re doing. a community service?_**

12:00 PM

**From Derek: _have you seen yourself around said community._**

**From Stiles: _go to work, sourwolf._**

**_i mEAN SOURPUSS_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update today  
> my beta thought u guys might enjoy a short chapter of just  
> dumb texts to fill in thursday/friday since i just  
> am not ab writing that. 
> 
> so enjoy their banter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up; minor mentions of abuse in this chapter.   
> you dont see it happen but hey. just incase.

It came as a shock to Stiles when Saturday rolled around. That’s not to say he wasn’t _ready_ for it, it just that it kind of. Showed up. It showed up much in the same way as dodgeball day in middle school gym class- much too soon and altogether unexpected.

Most of the week was a blur after Wednesday, anyways. Derek kept most of his attention during lecture halls. Or, more accurately, Stiles tried getting Derek to talk to him for those unyieldingly boring hours of hell.

Not that Derek did anything more than verbally scowl at him through his blunt ass way of texting.

Stiles was sure he would go over his data limit if Derek actually did reply, though, so it was probably for the best.

Except, it didn’t actually stop him from glaring at Derek first thing Saturday morning when he lugged himself out of his jeep and sulked towards the guy. 

A laptop was half protruding out of a backpack slung over his left shoulder, one arm with two binders tucked firmly between his side and palm. The other hand was flicking painfully slowly through a list of music, which surprised Derek, who was staring at him from the corner of his eye as he unlocked the door. 

That or Derek was just surprised (and worried) that Stiles wasn’t making any comments first thing that morning. Because he usually had a lot of them to make.

Stiles spared Derek a quick glance up, teeth gnawing thoughtfully on his bottom lip as the sound of Fleet Foxes bled out of the earbuds he had jammed in both ears. The door was promptly pushed open, and Stiles did a small half-bow before strolling past the perpetually grouchy looking employee. 

The bag Stiles was carrying dropped into a spare chair at his usual table, humming mindlessly to the tune of the song that mellowed out into a series of soft chimes and notes. When he pulled out the clunky looking laptop from his bag and set it on the table, Derek’s hands paused around the Clorox wipe he was running over the counter. 

Stiles just tossed him a raised-brow look, broad smile fluttering over his face as if to say _I actually have work to do, too, Derek. Bite me._

Stiles received an exotic looking mouth-part from Derek, to which Stiles plucked one earbud out and proceeded to tilt himself so his ear was pointed at Derek. “Sorry, did you say something?”

Derek’s mouth shut, a low huff dropping from his lips before he shook his head. “Isaac will be here in twenty if you can hold off on the wifi until then. Coffee?” 

There was a pause from where Stiles was clambering at the keys below his fingertips. “Doesn’t this mean I owe you, like, five dollars?” He threw over his shoulder, not bothering to look back over for confirmation. 

Derek only shrugged, punching in a couple of numbers on the register to busy himself. “I was only joking.” 

“You? Joking?” 

That got Stiles a low, rumbly growl of a chortle in reply. Maybe sourwolf was a suitable name for him. He glanced over his shoulder to where Derek was just staring, the corner of his mouth ticking into something between a horrified smirk and a full on smile. Stiles hummed, flicking out a hand out that promptly cracked. Derek grimaced in reply. 

“Glad to see you stepping out of your shell a little bit, Derek. And actually, I kind of need the internet for as long as I can get it. Coralwolf told me she’s having some issues with the group so I’ve gotta check on it, on top of some Criminology assignment I have to do actual research for. My binders can only help so much.” Stiles patted down the three-ring binders on the table for extra effect. 

A soft rustling of papers echoed in the relatively quiet store when Stiles went to pull up the ‘check connection’ tab of his laptop, Fleet Foxes being the only other noise besides the sound the floor made when Derek padded from one end of the counter to the open part, his body pushing past a couple carts of books he’d yet to stack. 

Stiles wasn’t exactly expecting Derek to be looming over his shoulder, but he wasn’t about to complain at the way the guy’s breathing was all huffy like he wasn’t at all amused. Which he so was. Stiles could see it in the reflection of his laptop that Derek was holding back a shit-eating grin. Like he was amazed Stiles genuinely wanted his help.

“Do you need me to type it in, or just tell you?” Derek mumbled, one elbow propping up on the back of the chair’s wooden frame. Stiles’ own body slumped back into the chair, fingers wriggling once on the keyboard before pulling back completely. 

“Knock yourself out.”

And that’s exactly what almost happened.

The moment Derek’s hand moved over Stiles’ shoulder (when he could have easily scooted to the side to type it in), Isaac came bursting through the door and setting off a series of rattling and chimes. Stiles, easily startled Stiles, flung his hand backwards and caught Derek square in the nose, to which Derek yelled Isaac’s name before Isaac so much as _breathed_ upon skidding to a stop in front of the store’s unwelcome doormat. Damn that beige doormat. 

Stiles ripped the remaining earbud away from himself, spinning back around to glare down Isaac who was sinking back behind one of the shelves of books. Stiles looked for something to throw at him, but when he saw Derek actually _bleeding_ and _fucking blushing_ , he choked on his own spit. 

“Oh my god Derek I’m so sorry” rang out from Isaac, accompanied by Stiles’ sudden fit of wheezing laughter and combination of “hold on I have tissues in my bag.” 

Five minutes later, Derek was sitting on the table, hands folded in his lap and mouth turned down in a perma-frown. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was directed at himself or Isaac, but each time he had to tell Derek to _stop moving_ or _jesus, Derek, I’m going to vomit if I get blood on my hand_ , Derek gave him that same look.

So he couldn’t really rely on Derek-to-Isaac body language for the situation at hand. 

Stiles fumbled absently with the wad of tissues in his dominant hand, muttering about dumb bookstore workers and employees who rushed in because they thought they were late. Derek’s nose twitched each time Stiles pressed the already bloodied clump to it, allthewhile resisting the urge to compare Derek to a rabbit. 

“Stiles, I can do this myself,” Derek huffed, the creases on his forehead barely visible behind what he assumed was Derek’s relaxed face. Which definitely wasn’t far from his _I’m not going to kill you now, but maybe later_ face, which Stiles was used to seeing first thing in the morning on Sundays.

“You could, but I was the one who socked you in the nose.” Stiles shrugged and pressed a clean end of the cloth to Derek’s nose again, a bit forcefully he might add, while Isaac scooted into view and all but physically trembled at the look he got from both Derek and Stiles. 

Isaac shuffled about the room, one hand wringing his wrist in a timid motion before audibly swallowing, curly hair much more of a mess than usual. “Sorry for uh-- for this. I just, I thought I was being followed by some asshole I know and um-”

Derek’s jaw tightened from where Stiles’ hand was holding it still, the cloth in the other stalling from the harsh exhale Derek sent off against his fingers. “Are they still out there?” He asked, not hesitating to grab Stiles’ palm and push him away rather short of gentle when Isaac shrugged, tossing a glance to the door. 

“Don’t know. They yelled my name and I just--I ran, I’m sorry, it wasn’t a big deal, I overreacted.”

Derek was already off the table and out the door before Stiles could tell him otherwise. Stiles cleared his throat, chair gingerly being pushed away when he stood to find the nearest trash can. “Why were they following you?” was what he decided on saying, the bloody cloth now smeared over his fingertips, causing Stiles to hold back a gag when he tossed it away, promptly running his hands over his jeans. It only spread the rusty colour over both fabric and skin, making him frown even further. 

Isaac shoved a foot behind the other, kicking at his own heel before shrugging in on himself. “Just some assholes from my dorm.” 

“Some assholes who have no life, or enough family drama to want to take it out on someone from their dorm.”

Isaac winced. 

That’s all it really took for Stiles’ brain to click, brow furrowing in thought. It looked like “the guys” weren’t the ones with family drama. “Those weren’t people from your dorm, were they?”

 

Derek came back about a half hour later to Stiles spread out on the floor, his back to the counter with Isaac all but wrapped up in both his arm and red hoodie. Stiles’ laptop was tucked on his lap, free hand absently typing away at what he assumed was his blog. When Stiles looked up from what he was doing, it occured to Derek that Isaac was using Stiles’ phone and earbuds.

Stiles swallowed and jerked his free shoulder up and down, scanning his eyes briefly over Derek’s now mussed form. “What happened?” 

Derek sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before tossing a sparing glance to the sign on the door and carefully flipping it to closed. Would rather not have customers walk in on a dog pile in the middle of his uncle’s store. 

“Drove off before I could throw their face into the nearest curb,” he muttered, fingers worming their way into his pockets as he watched Isaac shudder and drag the sleeves of the hoodie closer to his body. Stiles held him a little tighter. “Is Isaac okay?”

Stiles nodded, lower lip twitching from where his teeth dragged over it. “He has a bruise on his arm. I wrapped it up. Did his dad do this?”

Derek only nodded, a tight lipped frown following shortly after. “Do you want coffee?” 

“I have some.” Stiles tapped the edge of the foam cup just as Derek shook his head and jerked his chin to the door.

“I’m talking about good coffee. Isaac looks like he needs it, too.” 

The timid smile that pulled over Stiles’ face was enough confirmation, but when his head ducked to gently jostle Isaac awake, Isaac’s bleary-eyed look had Derek wanting to be anywhere but there. 

He was never really good at the whole comfort thing, and seeing how easily Stiles coaxed Isaac to get comfortable and calm down caused his chest to ache. 

The sound of Stiles clearing his throat and holding up two fingers snapped him back to reality. “Hot cocoas,” he called out just as Derek turned and nodded again, disappearing through the front door for the second time that day.

 

The rest of the time at the store was spent with Isaac fumbling around on Stiles’ laptop while Stiles walked around, taking pictures every now and then of certain corners of the building and any spot that looked like it would be good to set up party decorations. Derek was fidgety the entire time, alternating between dusting the same spot one too many times and checking up on Isaac who chuckled at things on Stiles’ blog every now and then. 

Stiles seemed oddly protective of his blog, Derek noticed. Except, when Isaac was watching him type something up earlier, Isaac threw in bits of information or timid comments to which Stiles all but beamed at. 

Derek was half tempted to ask Stiles what was so interesting that it had Isaac grinning every couple of minutes, but held himself back while Stiles was pacing around the store in between texting Lydia the photos he was taking. 

That is until Stiles tossed him a thoughtful look to which Derek rolled his shoulders at, resuming his book stacking duty. 

“Isaac?” Stiles called, his voice rather gentle over the subtle sounds of the laptop playing some indie radio station in the background. 

Isaac glanced up from the edge of the laptop, hoodie still swaddling him like a protective blanket. “Yeah?”

“Scott says he wants you to come over tonight. I told him I’d drive you over after the store closes.” 

It took Isaac a minute of chewing on his lip, fingers delicately plucking at the fabric of the hoodie before he nodded, looking back to the laptop screen. “Okay,” he whispered, then breathed out like a weight was lifted off his chest. “Oh. Uh, Coralwolf is online. She said she wanted to talk. Do you…?”

Stiles shook his head and grinned at him. “If you could let her know I’m busy that’d be great, but she can let you know if something’s up. Be my middle man, yeah?”

Isaac smiled back in his tentative way, ducking his head to type once again. 

Derek had disappeared into the backroom sometime ago, the sound of boxes being moved around falling on Stiles’ ears, who was carefully nudging his way around the shelves towards the slightly jarred open door. “Derek?” Stiles called, the boxes’ rustling coming to a halt before it picked back up with increased ferocity. 

“You alright back here, big guy?” Stiles asked, brow furrowing at Derek who was all but forcing boxes into spaces they could visibly not fit into. Derek’s mouth crinkled to a frown, a rough sigh drawing itself over his lips. 

“Isaac’s dad needs to be in jail” was all Derek had to say before Stiles was next to him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. The touch made Derek’s body tense in all the worst ways, but when Stiles’ dug the blunt edges of his nails into Derek’s bicep and smiled, he relaxed the slightest bit. 

“Hey, Isaac is alright. He’s going to stay at Scott’s for the next couple of nights. I’m going to call my dad tomorrow and ask him to do a background check on his dad and see if he can get a couple cruisers to do a quick scope around his house, maybe question the old fucker. My dad said since Isaac _is_ eighteen, he can legally leave his dad’s house. I think he’s just scared of not having somewhere to stay.” Stiles smile softened into a gentle frown, hand slipping from Derek’s arm before it was shoved into the pocket of his jeans. 

“I told Isaac he can stay at my place, too, while my dad does his thing. Y’know, being the big ‘ol sheriff and all, I’m sure it’ll be okay.” 

Derek’s shoulders slumped considerably at what Stiles had to say, chin tilting towards the door which lead out into the store, almost like he was listening to make sure Isaac was still alright out there. 

His gaze flicked back over to Stiles, brows creased. Derek looked a lot more...vulnerable without the heavy scowling he usually displayed, Stiles’ chest tightening slightly when Derek let out a shaky breath. “Thank you,” he murmured, one hand brushing over Stiles’ wrist before squeezing it once, then dropping back to his side. “He needs someone like you. You do lot more for him than I could offer.” 

If it weren’t for the way Derek avoided looking Stiles in the eye, Stiles would have taken it as a compliment and not the disappointment Derek must’ve felt for not being able to protect his employee. Well, his uncle’s employee. 

Stiles shook his head, lips pursing as he reached out and grabbed Derek’s retreating arm. The last time he did this, Derek tensed to the point he felt like solid rock, but this time he seemed to be relaxed. Stiles took it as a good sign and sighed, grip flexing and fingers unraveling themselves against the black cloth of Derek’s sleeve. “I’m pretty sure Isaac’s never had someone rush out of the store to go fight his crazy-ass father. I don’t think I’d be able to even threaten the guy.” Stiles snorted, palm relaxing when Derek looked over his shoulder. He looked like a kicked puppy, in all honesty. 

“Just because you didn’t throw yourself into a big cuddle pile doesn’t mean you’re any less of a good friend to him. He asked me if you were alright when you left to get coffee. I think what you’re doing for him is great. Really, honestly great.” 

And just like that, Stiles’ hand slipped away to retreat back into his pocket, smile falling back to its much more bashful state of being. Derek’s mouth twitched at the corner, the creases on his brow all but gone when he nodded back to Stiles. “Go take Isaac to Scott’s when he’s ready. I’ll spend the last couple hours straightening things up around here.” 

It was only around four, Stiles assumed, so Derek’s offer to let Isaac leave early made him smile broaden again. “I will,” he replied before slipping past Derek, his voice muffled by the music and the sound of boxes sinking back into Derek’s palms. 

___

Isaac and Stiles showed up at Scott’s a little after five. It turned out that Isaac was having a full on conversation with Coralwolf about Stiles and her group, and the contest itself. Stiles was pretty sure he heard Isaac call out to Derek at one point and say “You should join, Derek! I can email you the contest link if you want.” To which Derek shrugged and barked out a “sure, go ahead.” 

Stiles wasn’t freaking out at all, actually, but hey. Derek seemed like he’d be chill with the contest. He did, after all, give him a short summary of it before. If Derek did join though, Stiles would definitely have to scope him out and see if he ends up posting anything on their forum. He’s not sure if Isaac told Coralwolf about Derek possibly joining, but that’s something he could always do later. 

Scott greeted Isaac with the biggest bear hug he could muster, Isaac tucking himself shyly against Scott’s shoulder while his good arm coiled around his side. It might look like a long lost reunion to anyone else, but Scott had the word concern written all over his face when he pulled away and scanned Isaac up and down, asking him if he was okay and offering him his bed (which Isaac politely declined) allthewhile sneaking glances to Stiles who kept himself propped against the doorframe, content and pleased that Isaac would be safe for a couple nights while he got his dad to do some snooping for him. 

And while thinking of him, he pulled out his phone and sent his dad a quick _calling you tomorrow. need your help with something. be awake, love you._

His dad replied a couple minutes later with a simple _ok kid. love you too._ after Stiles was situated on Scott’s lumpy couch, feet plunkered over the coffee table with Isaac’s own legs wedged over his lap, head resting on Scott’s shoulder. 

Scott looked kind of like a protective pillow with the way his arm was slumped over Isaac, curly hair wedged between the crook of his shoulder and side of his jaw. Isaac actually had a blanket over him this time, one Stiles was absolutely sure Allison got Scott when she learned he could barely afford a good comforter set for his bed during the start of the semester. 

Stiles was back to working on his Criminology paper, however. His laptop was rested on Isaac’s legs (which were so much better at the whole staying still thing than his own, or Scott’s) humming in a content way while Stiles clicked away at its slightly stained keys. 

Scott had Sharknado on the TV, making comments every now and then about how dumb the movie was while Isaac mumbled in agreement in his half-asleep state. 

Stiles wouldn’t lie to being a little bit jealous when he first met Isaac and how he reacted to seeing Scott again, but it made more sense as to why Scott adopted Isaac almost immediately, much like he did with Stiles when they first met. That’s not to say Stiles needs protecting now, but he was a good backbone to have when he first came out as trans to their school. Scott could pull off the big bad alpha look despite what his ridiculous puppy-face would otherwise say.

Stiles pushed himself back into the couch a bit more firmly, shoulders weaseling from side to side to find that perfect indent they made years ago when he claimed the left side of the couch as his. 

While he got comfy, the low buzz of his phone made itself known on the armrest of the couch. Stiles picked it up gently between his hands, the heat from both Isaac’s legs and the fuzzy feeling in his chest causing him to fall into a placid state between awake and asleep. 

Once he fumbled with the locked screen enough and got it open, a text greeted his sleep-heavy eyes. 

**From Derek: _thank you again for today. see you tomorrow._**

**_night, stiles._ **

**From Stiles: _:) no problem._**

**_night sourwolf._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at this they're bonding.   
> thanks 2 my beta for putting up with me.


	11. Chapter 11

_Grounds for Thought_ was rather busy Sunday morning. The flood-gate was released at six, when they opened. People were actually lined up for a good couple of minutes, this slow rotation of customers coming and going. Most of them were business folk or Sunday morning church goers, but it was still a nice change of pace. 

Sometimes even Stiles forgot that not many people came to the coffee house, but then again, they weren’t a Bigby or Starbucks. The place was just a cozy hole in the wall, a coffee house owned by a little old man who all but gave Lydia the business and building- everything aside from the name it was attached to. 

The several tables they had were filled up, along with some smaller seats in the back, by the books. Noise drowned out the sound of music, making it a steady, low clamour above the soft white noise that had been some popular smooth sounding song. Lydia tended to the customers while Stiles listened to the orders bounce back and forth, making drinks for the beginning hour or so of the morning. It didn’t surprise him to not see Derek in the mass of bodies. The guy always struck Stiles to be more of the quiet type, and assuming he saw how busy it was walking by, Derek could probably be expected to avoid the place for at least a couple more hours.

By the time the bustling voices were a dull drone around nine in the morning, Stiles’ fingers were sore and Lydia looked just as peachy, if not even more excited, to be able to relay the good news to Mr.Grounds. Lydia never actually told Stiles his real name, so he was dubbed Mr.Grounds after Lydia decided Mr.Bean was too...scary for a small, balding elderly man. Especially since Mr.Bean was the thing of nightmares for tiny Stiles. 

He remembered specifically watching Mr.Bean and crying until his dad turned off the TV and took him to his mom. That night, he had ended up curled up with his parents, who put on the old people equivalent of X-Files. Somehow, he recalled his dad saying that that had made him stop crying.

Stiles groaned and pressed his forehead to the back of Lydia’s shoulder, a perfectly manicured hand reaching around and smoothing back a tuft of hair that Stiles hadn’t brushed down properly after waking up that morning. 

“I’m going to die,” Stiles groused as the chime went off for the entry door for what had to be the thirtieth time that morning. 

“No you won’t,” Lydia hummed back, her sing-song voice all the more annoying in what had to be Stiles final moments on earth. When he peered up from behind her shoulder, the sight of Derek looking as uncomfortable as he felt made the day a little bit more okay in his book. 

Derek’s gaze flickered to all sides, jaw tight and hands nearly white-knuckled around his phone. He must’ve been on a call with someone, or at least getting some bad news, because he looked _pale_. 

Lydia grinned and perched her chin on one hand, the other already clicking at the register’s keys while Derek made his way to the counter, more or less sulking while he did it. “Morning, Derek. The usual?” 

Derek’s jaw tightened again as he looked around the store, brows furrowing in that fiercely questionable way they normally did. Stiles was pretty sure they did cry for each scowl Derek hand delivered to the next unsuspecting victim. Derek made a noncommittal noise when Stiles spun around to make his drink, Stiles only pausing to toss a glance over his shoulder. 

“If you’re freaking out because of how busy it is this morning, I am too, don’t worry. It’s like the stampede from The Lion King came to town.” The words buzzed out of Stiles’ mouth before he could stop them, Lydia snickering at his analogy while Derek cleared his throat and squinted at the back of Stiles’ head. 

“Who’s Simba?” Derek griped, meeting Stiles’ gaze when he turned around with the fruity drink in hand. 

Stiles hummed, slipping the frappe across the table while Lydia side-eyed him from the register. “You, probably. You look like you’ve been set up for something awful this morning.” he paused, then added, “Or maybe that makes you Mufasa.”

“I have,” Derek replied immediately, taking the drink in one hand but not actually leaving the counter. He just kind of stalled there.  
He must’ve paid Lydia while Stiles wasn’t looking, he assumed. Judging the way Lydia found way more interest in her nails than prying gracious amounts of money from Derek. “by my sister.” 

That caught his and Lydia’s attention, Lydia looking delighted while Stiles face physically caved in on itself. “What’d she do?” Stiles mumbled, to which Derek shrugged and tapped the screen of his phone. 

“She told me she ‘signal boosted’ this place since the coffee was so good, but I wasn’t really expecting to see everyone and their grandmother here first thing.” The look Derek wore was tired and a bit fed up, his mouth downturned and all fight drawn from his eyes. He actually looked like he didn’t sleep at all, come to think of it. “Not exactly how I like spending my Sundays.”

“Does this mean you want to cancel the party planning this morning?” Stiles shot back, though he had moved on since then and was busy putting croissants and other baked goods back into the display case.

Derek shrugged and gestured to the slowly growing line behind himself. “I don’t want to hold anyone up.”

Lydia was the first to make a noise, her lips curling up into a smirk. Stiles knew that look. That look meant she thought of something, and while Stiles was mouthing “don’t do it”, Lydia purred and smoothed out the front of her shirt. “We could always head over to the diner down the block,” she suggested. “Of course I stay after for about a half hour to tidy up, but I’m sure Stiles would _love_ to spend some quality time with you.”

The agonizing noise that crawled out from the depth of Stiles’ stomach could not stop Derek’s curious eyebrow raise, or the way his lip seemed to twitch up at how much pain this was bringing Stiles’ very being. 

He’s also pretty sure Derek smiled when he said “Sure, that works.”

But Stiles wouldn’t know since he promptly stuck his fingers in his ears and sang The Itsy Bitsy Spider to block out any and all exchange of information Lydia was throwing at Derek’s all too eager feet. 

Or hands, since he was apparently typing the diner’s address into his phone.

Derek left while Stiles was on the Spanish version of the song, and the way Lydia smirked at him from behind her perfect nails told him she was thoroughly pleased with herself. There was, however, a twenty on the table for him. At least he got paid for this shit. 

The rest of their morning was considerably less busy, aside from the occasional rush order someone would rattle off to Lydia, to which Stiles would assume was for a big Sunday morning meeting between old white men. That, or some guy was just really about that coffee life. 

Stiles managed to spill a drink while carrying out to one of the tables, soaking his shirt and apron. A couple people laughed. Stiles accepted it as something that sometimes just had to happen in his world, but that didn’t make it burn less. Or suck less. And it certainly hadn’t made slipping and sliding on it less embarrassing. His only consolation was that he was pretty sure he smelled like the best human in the world, considering it had been a hot cinnamon-mocha coffee. But that still wasn’t actually worth the burns that dappled his collar bone and the hand he had decided to try and catch said coffee with. 

Lydia bit her own tongue laughing when Stiles had to work the last hour with a coffee stain running down his body. She also deemed it necessary to oh-so-helpfully mention the fact that Derek was probably already on his way to the diner. Or his apartment, since Lydia had told him that Stiles’ jeep wasn’t working that morning.

Which is exactly how Stiles showed up a little after one, the twenty minute walk from work to home extended by a couple of extra minutes to prolong the inevitable. His jeep was still parked in its usual spot, and Stiles glared at the back of her. “Your fault,” he hissed. He was going to say more but the sight of a sleek, black car sitting next to his blue jeep was all it took for him to shut his mouth.

The person who stepped out of said Camaro was just about the last person that Stiles wanted to see, and he briefly flirted with the idea of hot wiring the jeep and driving the fuck out of there.

Stiles decided against it when the sound of thunder howled in the distance, thinking it might be better to suffer smelling like someone’s breakfast than getting caught in a storm and actually _becoming_ someone’s breakfast. Provided he was stranded long enough for some hungry animal to seek out his poor blue jeep halfway submerged in muck and dirt. Or, what he assumed would be submerged. Especially if the rain was a downpour and- scratch that thought. 

So, he should be fine. 

Derek looked just as nervous as he did earlier, his mouth a solid line of sad when he caught a look at Stiles skulking past the Camaro and straight to door that lead into his apartment. “What happened?” Derek called back, Stiles already on the wide porch that had two sets of doors, keys promptly being weaseled out of his pocket and into the lock that had 2B above the door. 

“Coffee is a dangerous bitch,” Stiles snarked, the door popping open and barely missing Stiles’ nose as it swung towards him. Derek caught it with one hand, scowling at Stiles. Until he actually caught the smell of cinnamon and mocha that was practically _wafting_ off of him by that point. 

“You smell.” Derek pointed out, and Stiles all but laughed in his face. 

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. Glad your sniffer still works.” A pleasant smile was displayed on Stiles’ face before he spun away and trudged up a flight of stairs. He could make out the sound of Derek shutting the door behind himself, but it didn’t really matter if he did or not since the actual door to his room was usually locked. The first one was just kind of there for the stairs. Like a security blanket, but a door. Both were equally meaningless in the larger scheme of safety for him.

“Are you sure you wanna see where I live? You could always just, I don’t know, wait out here while I freshen up. Because it’s messy. It smells like boy. Not even good boy, like dirty boy.”

Derek was staring him down, his eyebrows gradually climbing further and further up his face until Stiles was positive that they were about to grow wings and ascend to the heavens to claim their rightful eyebrow thrones when he realized how _wrong_ all of what he said sounded. 

Stiles propelled his hands outwards towards the door, quickly unlocking it and bursting through without so much as a “sorry, not what I meant. Come in.” He was sure he was red from his ears and beyond, body having resolved to heading straight into his room, door swinging shut behind him as he shucked off his coffee-coated shirt (and binder, why life. Why) before tossing on both a new binder and his holy red hoodie. He still hadn’t washed it, but he really didn’t feel like trying to put on something better than the previous brown shirt he had on. 

When he reemerged to Derek standing awkwardly in the doorway, still looking confused. If Stiles didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn Derek had done one of those eye wanders usually reserved for models or hot people.

Stiles was neither of those things, unless those burn marks on his collarbone and hands were really doing something for his looks. 

The clammy feeling of his hands reminded him that Derek was still there, waiting by the door. He was about to ask why, but Derek tipping his chin out and towards where the Camaro remained in its fancy-as-hell way, Stiles licked his lips and nodded. “Right, uh. Diner. Meeting.”

 

Being allowed to sit in a car that was basically made for only the rich and sexy had Stiles fidgeting constantly in the front seat the entire drive over. If he wasn’t messing with the seatbelt, complaining it was on the verge of too tight, he was poking and prodding at Derek’s radio. Derek seemed amused, but still swatted at his hand when he tried to program different stations into it. Stiles promptly reminded him that he was a _guest_ in this car, to which Derek told him he was probably the worst guest he’s had. Stiles had the sneaking suspicion that he also may be the only guest Derek had ever had there willingly, if judging by the stiffness of the passenger seat material.

Arriving at Black Kite diner was a relief. Stiles all but hopped out of the car before it even rolled to a complete stop. The only reason he didn’t is because Derek saw him going for the door handle and snagged the back of his hoodie and sat his ass back down in the seat. “You break it, you buy it,” Derek snapped, and Stiles batted his eyes. 

“And if I can’t pay it back?” 

Derek seemed to consider this while the car’s ignition rolled to a stop, the beefy growling of the Camaro huffing out and silencing itself. “You owe me,” was all he huffed out before slipping out of the car. Stiles wondered just what exactly he would owe Derek, bottom lip between his teeth developing a red mark of idle worry.

He followed Derek into the diner, hands shoved self consciously into the pockets of the red hoodie. He didn’t notice it before, but Derek was wearing a leather jacket he was almost positive he’s never seen the guy wear. 

Actually, it looked like he changed completely from his earlier morning clothing. 

Earlier, Stiles was positive he only had on some sweats and a grey henley. But now he looked like he was actually dressed to go somewhere fancy, provided his get up of leather jacket, jeans and dark blue shirt. Like a snazzy biker bar for rich kids. Which made Stiles glance down at himself and cringe. His jeans had holes riddling the knees, the red hoodie smelling faintly like his shampoo and the coffee accident from earlier. 

The waitress smiled at Derek, thick locks of curly blonde washing over her shoulders. Dangerously bright red lipstick exposed the just as dangerous pearly whites of her teeth, gaze washing over Derek once before she took notice of Stiles a delayed few seconds later. Not that it surprised him due to how he was dressed. “Who’s this, Der?” The waitress purred, grabbing two menus before Derek shook his head and held up three fingers. She got the memo and grabbed an extra, though didn’t bother to move until Derek sighed.

“This is Stiles. He’s a regular at my uncle’s place.” Derek grumbled, glancing back to Stiles who had jerked his hand up in greeting. “Stiles, Erica.”

The waitress- Erica- looked almost predatory with the way her eyes narrowed and lips curled into another slim grin. “He’s cute,” she purred. Derek tossed Stiles a look akin to an apology, but damn he looked like he was red. Stiles only swallowed and clapped his hands together.

“Before Lydia walks in and decides to join this interrogation of my charm, to which I’m sure she’ll fight you on, why don’t we just,” he jerked his hands towards an empty booth, “sit down.”

Erica rolled her eyes at the same time Derek struggled to hold back a smirk, both of them being lead to the booth Stiles was seconds away from throwing himself at. 

Stiles sighed and pulled himself into the seat closest to the window, his elbows propping up on the light coloured table. Derek slid in next to him. 

The looks Erica gave Stiles was eerily similar to the ones Lydia gives him, her eyes squinty and mouth drawn in a tight smile. It was exciting and terrifying all at once. Not that there wasn't much that isn't exciting to a fresh-out of high school boy.

The menus were set out in front of them, the extra on the other side for when Lydia finally showed up. It was around one twenty-five, so she would show up in another five or ten minutes, presuming she didn’t run to her house to change. 

The Black Kite was relatively small, the door leading in on the corner of the street made of steel bars and glass. It was windowed from two sides, the floor a mix of carpet and wood. The carpeted section had window seats and a black couch pressed snugly to one wall, multiple small tables dotting the floor. There was a bar where you ordered once you looked through the menu, a glass case displaying a multitude of different pies and sandwiches. Some machines for teas and coffees were tucked on the far end of the bar where employees entered, another secondary menu for specials tucked behind the bar on a small blackboard. 

While Stiles was surveying the homey looking place, the sound of the iron door opening introduced an even prettier looking Lydia. She definitely lied about staying after work because she looked flawless. 

She was wearing a simple seafoam green button down with black leggings, but it still managed to make Stiles appreciate the effort it took for her to look nice no matter who or what she was visiting. 

Which reminded Stiles again of how underdressed he actually was. 

Drawing in a sigh, he sank back into the booth and glanced up to the bar where Erica was speaking to someone. Whoever it was looked massive, actually, all quiet and stoic back behind the counter with nothing but a black t-shirt and white apron protruding out from behind. That, and a super nice butt. Not that Stiles was staring or anything. Stiles was watching them talk until Erica pointed to him, prompting mystery guy to shoot Stiles a look that had him ducking his head into his menu. 

“Glad to see you two haven’t died yet,” Lydia mused as she seated herself across from Stiles. He glared at her. 

“Not physically at least,” Stiles mumbled from behind his menu. Derek tossed him a look but didn’t say anything, his gaze directed at Lydia while she dug out some things from her purse. 

Soon enough there were different print outs of party decorations on the desk with Derek staring them down like a foreign language and Stiles snickering to himself. “Before we get all worked up over this Halloween planning shit so your uncle doesn’t take your first born child, Derek, how about we get food. Food sounds really nice right now.” 

Lydia and Derek exchanged looks as Stiles returned to mumbling items off the menu to himself. 

 

If he realized that wanting food meant he had to go up and order it, Stiles might have bypassed for Burger King or something on the way back to his house. Not that Derek could do much to stop him if he decided to whine about it until they pulled over. 

Standing in front of the bar with the bulky guy watching him carefully made Stiles hairs rise on end, sweat pooling against his palms and neck. “Can I help you?” the guy gruffed, and Stiles nodded in his jerky fashion as he rattled off the little note Lydia wrote down about what he was getting.

It was boiled down to two meat pies (they were only about the size of your palm, but damn thick), two lemonades and one chai tea. Stiles said he’d split his pie with Lydia, to which she smiled about because Stiles rarely _ever_ shared his food. The last time he did was when Scott was sick and couldn’t do much more than sweat and vomit for a solid weekend. Stiles lived off half cans of soup so his best friend didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything good. 

But that was a year ago. 

So when Stiles returned to the booth to find Lydia and Derek arguing over placement of fucking streamers of all things, Stiles fidgeted by Derek’s side until he spared himself a glance up to Stile and moved forward on the booth. He didn’t even bother to get up, he just scooted forward. And continued to argue. 

Stiles bit on the inside of his cheek as he manouvered himself around to gingerly step out behind Derek, kneeing him once or twice while trying to move over the red cushiony seat. 

“-does not want this place to lure in everyone, it’s just a party to get business.”

“No party is a good party without a chocolate fountain and the right assortment of snacks for said fountain.”

Stiles tuned out from their conversation again, his phone providing more amusement to drown out their arguing and Lydia’s observational skill. He had a missed text from Scott, but he’d check it later when he got home. 

Their conversation died down when the quiet guy who took Stiles’ order came over and put down two plates and three drinks, Derek offering a tip of his head and a “Thanks, Boyd,” before paying him. 

Stiles wasn’t even aware that Derek was paying for this until he actually saw the money and had his hand was batted away by Lydia. 

Boyd nodded and walked off without a word. Which was a little unsettling, but hey. 

Derek sighed and turned to Lydia again, his scowling face kicked up a couple degrees. “How do you expect us to get all of this up the day before?” 

Lydia hummed and stirred her chai tea around in the glass, pausing every now and then to purse her lips and take tentative sips of it before deeming it drinking quality. “Stiles can gather our merry band of misfits to help,” she offered.

Since when did it become Stiles do this, Stiles do that day. 

He shot Lydia a glance as he cut the meat pie in half, grumbling half heartedly into his lemonade while pulling a napkin from the dispenser by his arm. “You’re talking to Jackson, not me.”

Lydia shrugged. “So you handle Scott, Isaac and Allison.”

“Fine.”

Derek seemed skeptical of their plan working, but his sour mood melted behind the surface of a meat pie. Stiles didn’t blame him, their pies were good. He remembers when Lydia first dragged him there and they sat on the black leather couch listening to some slam poems while Stiles proceeded to drop meat pie filling all over the place. It was honestly kind of great. 

The conversation ended with all of them eating, Stiles offering suggestions every now and then about the party, to which Derek would make a choked noise at and Lydia would grin about. 

It was decided that it would be a costume party, which Derek fussed about and made grumbly noises at. Stiles was elated. 

 

They disbanded about two hours later, Lydia having finished sorting the details out with Derek and Derek complaining that he had somewhere to be or else his uncle would most likely fire him. Stiles knew that was a lie, but Derek really did look like he wanted to be out of there. 

Derek’s Camaro hummed to life when he and Stiles got in the car, Stiles immediately toying with the windows to see how many times he could open and close them before Derek told him to stop.

He did it twice. 

They were halfway down the street when Stiles sank back into the leather, phone having been opened once he was shut down from the window. Except now the phone dropped into his lap, Stiles’ fingers flexing involuntarily against his jeans. Derek glanced over to him at the red light, frowning. “Stiles?” 

Stiles fingers flexed again, mouth working open and closed. “Fuck,” he whispered. 

The light turned green and Derek started to drive again, tossing wary glances to Stiles who was staring anywhere but his phone. He was only a block from the apartment, so when it came to view, he pulled to turn into the parking lot and stopped the car in the nearest space. The car rumbled obediently, Derek’s gaze dropping to the phone in Stiles’ lap. “Stiles?” he asked again, one hand remaining on the wheel while the other reached out to touch his shoulder.

Stiles seemed to snap back to reality when Derek’s hand pressed against his arm, mouth tight and fingers beginning to shake. “Scott--Scott says someone I know might be back.” Stiles murmured, shutting his eyes fiercely before breathing roughly through his nose, Derek having unbuckled himself and turned to completely face Stiles. 

“Who?” 

Stiles looked terrified and uncomfortable, his shoulders quaking under where Derek’s grip tightened on him. His fingers curled around the phone and dragged it up to his chest, pushing it towards Derek.

“Theo Raeken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! beta has important non-beta things to get done before helping me with my fic.  
> however here's 11! hope you guys enjoy it.


	12. Chapter 12

**From Scott: _jackson said he saw theo in the gym today…_**

Stiles received that text a week ago while he was still in the cafe. In any normal situation, a text from Scott was one he’d usually check right then and there despite whatever he was doing, but for some reason on that particular day the stars must’ve aligned and corrupted his train of thought because he didn’t even read the message until he was a whole freaking ten yards away from the door to his apartment. He could have waited a little bit longer, but no. He checked it in the front seat of Derek’s Camaro.

The same Camaro he was certain had vomit stains on the floor and leather interior from his realization and panic attack combination. That’s not to say Derek hadn’t tried to help after dawning on the fact that Stiles was probably on the verge of _dying_ in the seat next to him. 

Derek kept saying Stiles’ name, trying to get him to look at anything but the phone, but with how panicked Derek looked while doing it, that was actually more terrifying than not being able to breathe. When he did finally get a hand on Stiles’ back, Stiles’ immediate reaction was for his body to go _nope, false alarm. Just gonna throw up all over your crush’s nice leather._

Because his body was a big dick. 

And not even the good kind.

He was pretty sure he’d never opened a car door that quick in his life. He was also damn sure he broke the world record for saying “sorry” in one rushed gasp of air, not that it came out as anything more than a jumble of raspy noises as he sprinted off. 

From Stiles perspective, though, Derek looked mortified and down right fucking scared when he was left alone in the car with lunch remains as his only companion. Stiles was barely able to get inside his apartment before he collapsed by the door, the car’s angry rumbling suiting the way his brain spun to the conclusion Derek more than likely hated him after such a romantic display. 

Needless to say, the week following that Sunday had consisted of Stiles’ phone being on silent for most of the time, only checking to see if his dad ever got his texts about Isaac and to let Scott know he wasn’t dead. At least not physically.

His emotions had taken a pretty big toll though.

Despite his quarter-life crisis, on that Friday afternoon the sound of someone knocking on his door made Sulky McSulker (a thoughtful nickname from Lydia whom he texted all his problems to) battle with himself on whether or not moving to answer was even worth it. Another briefly considered option was to just move. To Antarctica. 

His feet found the floor with a level of difficulty usually only known to drunks or toddlers, before advancing across his room and into the living room, towards the door which sat down the small hall. 

Everything in the apartment complex was disheveled, from the pizza boxes sitting half opened and empty on the kitchen counter to the glasses that had piled up in the small sink by his fridge. He figured that cooping himself up in his place would provide a decent time frame to get shit done, but his own self pity rendered even the simplest of tasks all but impossible to him. 

The clothes Stiles’ wore were rumpled up around his body, backs of his hands dragging across his eyes to scrub the sleep away. Stiles absently tugged down the fabric around his torso, fingers making a faulty attempt at smoothing the wrinkles. He was in a Reptar shirt, and usually he would be more self conscious about answering the door in nothing but that and a pair of boxers, but he couldn’t be bothered to give a shit. Not even if it was Lydia.

It wasn’t exactly every day you somehow ruin a car worth more than your own life at the same time as finding out your “nemesis” was out and about in your town after being gone for over ten years. Which was clearly not long enough. Then again, Stiles may be partially to blame for not cutting Theo any slack for some hardy reasons his still very young mind had to offer. Most involving Theo casually pointing out his birth gender to classmates or throwing _the name that shall not be spoken_ around in the air like it was no big thing.

His twenty year old brain decidedly still hated the dude. Not worrying about panicking for fear of purposeful misgendering was fucking awesome. The less people around that remembered him as anything resembling feminine, the better.

But Stiles was never lucky- fate always provided some way to screw him over. It just seemed to really, really like to use Theo as a vessel of misfortune for him.

When the door cracked open, the safety latch made a small creaking noise in protest to Stiles’ palm pushing firmly on the knob. Just outside the crack it made, he could make out Scott’s worried puppy face, brows crinkled inwards and mouth parted just enough to give off the impression he was fly catching. But it was Isaac with him who startled Stiles into closing the door and fully unlocking it, shoving it wide open to see the two guys standing there and giving off an apologetic vibe. 

Stiles hadn’t told Scott about what happened, but he was sure Isaac probably overheard Derek bitching (or God forbid, yelling) about his Camaro and how oh-so expensive it must be to clean it. He sighed, drawing his right hand up to scratch at his already mussed hair. From the way it felt in between his fingers, he’s sure it looked like someone dragged a pitchfork through it just to tangle all the ends together. Then dumped some grease on it for an extra gross factor. 

He didn’t bother to shower that morning and completely ditched Finstock’s class earlier anyways, so personal hygiene seemed unnecessary at this point in his day.

There was a bit of silence as Stiles stared down the two curly haired boys, his own mouth a thin line that was a half hearted attempt at frowning aggressively at them. Only when Isaac held up a coffee carrier with three coffees in it did Stiles move away from the door and all but threw himself face first onto the couch. He welcomed the smell of the familiar cotton blend that held countless pizza and beverage stains on it over even the nicest of coffee right then. 

Isaac weaseled in after him while Scott lingered back to shut the door carefully, not bothering to lock it. The room was relatively silent aside from the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen, TV on a volume of ten to accompany Stiles’ already horrible sitcom of a life with a bad track of fake audience laughter. Which Scott promptly switched to cartoons when he saw the face Stiles was pulling in the TV’s direction.

Scott ended up sitting on the right edge of the couch, thigh pressed up against the ball of Stiles’ feet while Isaac was comfortable flopping out on the floor, back pressed snugly next to where Scott’s legs dangled over the edge. Stiles had to work himself onto his back before Isaac dispensed the coffees between the three of them, proudly announcing he got Stiles a caramel latte, to which Stiles returned a half smile as a thank you.

They watched cartoons for a little while, several episodes of Tom and Jerry rolling by on the screen to accompany Stiles sipping his coffee and nursing his sore feelings, Scott having already polished his off and Isaac complaining about halfway through that it got too sweet. Scott ended up making an actual pot of coffee then, pouring some of it into Isaac’s cup to balance out whatever ridiculous sugar-bomb the blonde got to start with. 

Isaac grinned in Scott’s direction when he settled back on the couch, Scott’s reply was shoving his toes into Isaac’s side and beaming over at him.

Stiles wanted to throw up just from looking at them. 

He knew that Isaac had been fond of Scott from the moment they saw each other in the bookstore that one day. But to see how easily they meshed together made him border on the verge of jealousy and protective-Stiles. He resolved to heave out a sigh and tipped his head back, one hand dislodging itself from the coffee long enough to swipe over his forehead. Better a subject change before his thoughts went rampant over a certain employee in the company of others. “So why did you guys decide to show up bearing caffeine?” 

He could feel Scott shift on the other edge of the couch, the cushion dipping as he tried to get comfy. Or stall. “Isaac was worried about you,” Scott mumbled, and when Stiles glanced up past his own palm and splayed fingers, Scott wasn’t meeting his gaze. Having been Scott's bro for so long, his tells were basically second nature. And eye-avoidance was one of the first ones he learned, especially when said eyes showed up most often after a good scolding from Mama McCall or disappointed looks from Stiles’ dad. 

“Liar,” Stiles huffed at once. 

Scott pouted, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his pullover. He knew there would be no way around an already grumpy and very aware Stiles. “Isaac said _Derek_ was worried about you. Is worried, actually.”

Stiles couldn’t help but let out a short bark of laughter, rolling himself again so his back was pressed up against the arm of the couch, legs folded up to his chest. “Did he tell you what happened, Isaac?” 

The lighter curly haired guy only shook his head, jaw tipping sideways so he could get a look at Stiles who was trying his best not to glare or otherwise seem like the moody asshole he was. It didn’t work too well, judging by Isaac’s frown and Scott nudging him again with his foot. 

Isaac shrugged then, dragging the remains of his coffee to his lips. “He’s just seemed upset the last couple of days.”

“What even happened, dude?” The question coming out of Scott’s mouth was a hushed whisper, like he was worried he was about to rip off a bandaid from an extra hairy arm. Which was pretty close to the truth if Stiles was being honest with himself. However, Scott made it more painful to think about by asking it so delicately.

Stiles shrugged, fingers curling into his hair for something to busy himself with. “You know how it is, total douche from your sixth grade year shows up in a text from your best friend, said text you don’t read until you’re in the car of the guy you basically see religiously to pawn off for wifi, then proceed to break into a raging inferno of hyperventilation and finally vomit all over his leather seat when he tries to help you calm the fuck down.” He paused, drawing in a long stream of air before making a small broken sound, free hand slapping his knee to draw away some of the tightness in his chest. “Did I also mention I didn’t even say _hey thanks for not letting me die_ and pretty much ran the fuck out of there?” 

There was no immediate response from either of them, Stiles happily taking that as the _you done fucked up_ type of silence. At least that much he was familiar with, having tolerated Jackson's asshole ways for so long. He let out a puff of air, the gust knocking some of his matted bangs from his eyes. The gesture reminded him that he needed a haircut, but the thought was promptly shoved far, far away. 

Isaac made the first returning noise, the sound of his blunt nails dragging through his hair surprisingly irritating to Stiles as it broke their silence. Then again, his favourite song was irritating when it blared that morning. More or less the entire week.

That usually meant nothing good considering he purposely put that song on to wake up happy and not crabby like he did back in highschool. Those were the dark days of Blink 182 and Green Day. But now, he could only expect Vengaboys and Aqua to do so much. And one’s sunshine can only be stolen so many times before even Len couldn’t help you.

Isaac chewed on his lower lip, gaze tossing itself across the stain splattered floor. “Derek’s not mad, you know.” Stiles laughed and sucked in a ragged breath. 

“Bullshit.”

“No, he’s really not--he came in on Tuesday grumbling about the Camaro but when I asked how the party planning went he looked like he got hit by a bus.” Isaac pulled a face akin to a kicked animal, tongue dragging over his lips. “I’ve never actually seen him look so concerned. I tried to ask him what was up but he brushed it off and asked if you called or anything. Which is, well, weird for him.”

Isaac finished with a passive one-shoulder shrug, leaning slightly to the right so his weight was rested against Scott’s leg. Scott didn’t seem to mind it. 

Stiles, not having anything to say to that, resorted to huffing into his coffee, polishing off the last of it in a quick swig that still somehow managed to burn the back of his throat. Not like it had a good two hours to cool or anything. Maybe his nerves were just shot from feeling so conflicted so his throat was all puffy. Or life was really that disappointed in him that they felt the need to keep the coffee boiling.

They went back to watching cartoons after that, the three of them arranged on the couch like a poorly done tetris game. Stiles’ legs draped over both Isaac and Scott’s laps, backs of his thighs pressed to Isaac’s leg while Isaac had wriggled on the center cushion after much protest, lazily leaning up against Scott and scrubbing the curly locks of his hair into his shoulder.

Scott was happy to provide himself as a full body pillow, one arm over Isaac’s shoulder while the other remained limp on the arm of the couch.

Stiles could hear the faint buzz of someone calling his phone from his room when he passed out.

____

It should have been more natural for someone to arrive at Books Begone a good two hours after it opened rather than first thing in the afternoon, but Stiles felt thoroughly ruined when he woke up to the fact that it was after twelve. Ruined to the point of scolding himself for not getting up to get there right as the sign was flipped to open. Which was completely dumb considering he wasn't obligated to be there at all. 

Not that his brain made the guilt any less real. 

He ended up passing out for a solid six hours on the couch with Isaac and Scott the previous night, only to wake up to the two of them half-cuddling. They only fell short of full on cuddling because Stiles’ legs ended up separating the two of them, but still got his feet pancaked between Isaac’s side and Scott’s stomach. Stiles ended up opting out of that pile and removed himself to lurk into his room, to which he fiddled around with the multitude of books he had stacked up, sleep having evaded him after the powernap. It was around four in the morning when his body came down from its sleep high, Stiles’ left sinking into the mattress with barely enough time to set his alarm before he was out like a light.

So waking up at noon but not actually leaving to go to the bookstore until one forty-five seemed like a terrific idea to his sleep-deprived mind, not to mention that it would prolong the inevitable of seeing Derek. 

But going there was a thing he did ever since Lydia first pointed the place out to him. And thus being late made him feel like garbage. Stiles sucked up that sick feeling in his stomach and dragged his ass out of the house with nothing but his laptop and a couple project prompts he had to do research for. That and earbuds, but earbuds were essentially stuck to him twenty-four seven.

The familiar ring of the bell sounded a lot louder than usual as the glass door budged open, a dark shape of a cart with books on it visible off to the left. Stiles sucked in a small breath of air, old books somehow soothing his headache. It was like a type of weird, crusty medicine. He’s not really sure if it was the lack of sleep that did him in, or the fact that his stomach was halfway ready to heave itself out again due to the idea of confronting the surly employee he's grown to have conflicted emotions over. 

But low and behold, despite all warning signs from his body to just _stay home_ and avoid everything, Derek peered out from behind one of the shelves of books and all but seemed to melt against it. His mouth was slightly open, brows pushed up and eyes rather wide like he didn’t believe Stiles was still alive. Like Stiles’ presence was a sudden wing of comfort to nestle into and not let go.

Stiles felt like the polar opposite of that train of thought, more or less comparing himself to the Wicked Witch of the West, or whichever one had glossy slippers and was promptly crushed by a house. He’d probably take being crushed by a house better than the look Derek was giving him that very moment.

Instead of bolting out the door, Stiles gave a bit of a half wave, fingers dragging in the air before curling protectively over the arm that held his old laptop, the insecure wave of feelings crashing into him. For once he didn’t have his binder on, but that was more out of the fact he fell asleep in it and really didn’t feel like pushing his luck for wearing it all day too, so Stiles was on ultimate hunch-over duty as he meandered further into the book-filled building. 

That, and wearing a binder after not showing his face for what felt like two years, was a grim plight that no one should force upon themselves to begin with. He really should have showered when he got up, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t drowned himself in cologne when he realized that dealing with people would be a thing.

Stiles took his usual seat by the check-out counter and coffee machine, back pressed awkwardly into the wood while he fiddled around to get comfortable. The building felt more stuffy than usual, not counting the books that probably contributed to the old but still gold tang already there. 

His laptop found the table with an obnoxiously loud _clunk_ that stirred Derek from whatever he’d been doing, for the first sign of his arching eyebrows rose from the depths of the store. Derek’s actual body became visible after some meerkat-esque ducks behind a bookshelf. 

He looked more vulnerable than usual, though. His shoulders were hunched and the black longsleeve he wore seemed looser somehow, like the muscles below the fabric didn’t feel the need to tense up and go on high alert for once in their life. Stiles is positive he’s never actually seen Derek look anything less than ready to pounce, or run (and fight), but the change startled him more than he’d ever admit. He wasn’t good with change, Stiles had figured out that much at least. 

And, for some reason, seeing Derek look anything other than his usual self was concerning.

Stiles didn’t like that. 

Derek was the first one to speak. His voice rumbled out into a slow cough, mouth quirked down at the corners as he gestured to the laptop with his right hand. “Do you need the key?” 

Shrugging, Stiles turned the laptop in Derek’s direction. He didn’t trust his voice enough to make any proper word sounds and forcefully decided to keep his mouth shut while Derek moved over and took control of the computer. He really could do it himself by just listening to what the employee had to say and click it in or whatever, but it felt comfortable to let Derek do his thing and just hang back and wait. That much hadn’t changed, at least.

It’s not like he would die if he didn’t get his hands on the computer right that minute anyways.

The only thing was that Derek lingered a tad longer than usual, pointer finger hovering over the enter key. His eyes remained glued to the screen but not on any one thing in particular. Like it was something to occupy himself. “Are you alright?” 

Derek sounded gentle, concerned. A polar opposite from what Stiles was even remotely expecting. He saw the way Derek acted around people who did shit to piss him off, even around those at Grounds for Thought whose eyes lingered a little too long. Derek pushed them off with a scowl and a flash of teeth, but to hear his voice so quiet was...well, terrifying. 

“I threw up in your fucking car.” The volume of Stiles’ words tumbled out before he could think about it, mouth tightened to a thin line. It was rough, sharp. Not a question or even an apology, a statement that edged over the line of anger. Derek just kind of stalled, though Stiles could see his fingers twitch from where they were poised over the keyboard. 

Derek still didn’t look angry when he gazed over, eyes dragging across Stiles’ features once before staring at him in a startlingly calm manner. He sighed, the sound of his voice remaining so light it was kind of agitating. “It’s not a big deal, Stiles.”

“Um, if you haven’t noticed, it kind of is. That car is worth more than my apartment and you’re so _okay_ about all of it.” His own eyes narrowed on reflex, shoulders winding tight below the layers of clothing while trying to pinpoint the look Derek was giving him. It was similar to the one you would find on a disappointed dad, but the phrasing left a weird taste in his mouth. Derek was so very different from the Sheriff, but it’s all Stiles could really think of that fit. “Most people I know who act like you would’ve thrown me face first into the dashboard and yelled at me.”

“What do I act like?”

“What?”

“You said ‘most people I know who act like you’,” Derek made a small gesture with his hand, but Stiles was more or less focused on the fact that _that’s_ what he picked up on from the conversation. Not that his fancy machine was probably going to be stuck in a shop for two weeks while some poor, unfortunate soul tried to scrub it clean.

Stiles sighed, head rolling sideways: the act of rolling his eyes was too little of a gesture to get across how he felt about everything. He was irrationally upset over the entire situation and couldn’t exactly get over the fact that it felt like the end of the world was closing in on him. To think that it wasn’t just made him more upset and angry. Not while he'd spent the last week upset and frustrated with himself for potentially blowing it with a guy he's not even sure swings his way. “You act like you’re all fucking sour and broody all the time and have so many better things to do than be here. Like, you would be so much _happier_ alone and anywhere else. A place that has, like, literally no one, man. But around me you take it like a grain of salt and it’s really fucking weird. You get so zen and patient and I just,” Stiles flailed his arms out in either direction, “I’m just here. Fucking things up.”

Derek’s expression was somewhere between concerned and confused, but he looked rather constipated when his face finally figured out what it wanted to do. “Is that what you think I think?”

“It’s not about thinking it! It’s just what happens! I try to do something and, wow, bam! I fuck it up! Like a super power! The literal shittiest super power!" Stiles hands clenched against his lap, teeth dragging over his bottom lip while Derek continued to stare him down. It felt like he was being torn apart by his eyes alone, the intensity almost too much, which left Stiles on the cusp of shying away.

Derek must’ve noticed it, too, because he breathed out a puff of air and hit the enter key on the laptop, tearing his gaze away from Stiles. "I was worried you weren't going to be okay when you left. The car is replaceable, but the look you gave me before you ran off just-" 

He stopped and shook his head, drawing out a low sigh. "It's just something I've seen before. I'm glad you're okay."

Derek was gone before Stiles had a chance to fully process what was said, the deadly realization that Isaac was right left his throat dry and palms sweating bullets. Derek actually cared about him, and Stiles wasn't sure just how much of it he deserved.

 

The day went by rather slow after that. Derek spent most of the time stacking books and moving things around, putting up placement markers for next week's goal of setting up for the party. 

The lengthy discussion of decoration had been whittled down from luxurious streamers and lights to whatever Lydia and Stiles could get their friends to bring in. Stiles decided he was going to play it safe and roll with the cheap and affordable theme considering half of his friends were just as broke as him. Besides Jackson anyways. Apparently he was out-the-ass rich (not that this was new information, but Stiles still didn’t believe it sometimes) and buying a couple hundred dollars worth of decorations was totally not a problem to his budget. It was just a problem with his fucking attitude.

Stiles decided long ago Jackson probably made most of his money by doing strip teases on the internet, but never went out of his way to confirm it. It wasn’t _that_ important to him. He just had a knack for coming up with ironically painful situations that haunted his dreams more often than not.

But, back on track, Stiles decided that the cheapest (and nicest) costume he could pull off would be Dread Pirate Roberts. It was just a matter of finding the right clothing to make the costume in time for the following Saturday. It had to look at least semi-decent or he _knew_ someone will mistake him for Zorro or a random ass bandit. Not that many bandits ran around wearing leather tights, but hey, what works works.

Stiles dismissed the ideas of leather-wearing bandits running rampant in his head as he scanned over his group forum, noticing the end date for their contest was just around the corner. November third, just after Halloween, would mark the day that Stiles and Coralwolf decided their group logo and a meet up location to get the winner to see the author of the comic that brought them all together. Or a Skype call if the winner ended up halfway across the country.

Tongue Tied, Coralwolf's comic, essentially saved Stiles years of confusion and trouble when he was first transitioning. The motivational lines and soft coloured illustrations that Coral did had worked their way into his heart. He still had yet to see her in person, but they did do Skype calls when Stiles still had working internet. To see the group still thriving, even in his absence, made Stiles smile fondly at the screen. It was one of the few things he took full, honest pride in. 

He was the one who coded the forum and helped moderate discussions and hash out advice when he could, but most people knew him for the fact that he always had an interesting story or experience to help Coralwolf create more illustrations when she was stuck on ideas. That, or they just really enjoyed the long rants he posted on his blog. 

Stiles is particularly fond of the bickering he does during certain topics, most of them involving unseen sides of being trans and the internal drama of it all. He likes when he can pick people's brains and make them think. Or piss them off, which had its perks too. Usually the perk being finding the assholes lurking around the forum and promptly booting them before they upset someone.

 

Which is how Derek found him around five thirty, a half an hour before he had to close. Stiles looked _explosive_ from where he sat, hunkered over his laptop and slapping at the keys with a burning look in his eyes. It would be a bit more frightening if Stiles didn’t look so frazzled to begin with. His hair was still a mess and his clothing was all sorts of wrinkled, making him look vaguely similar to an old doll Derek found in his sister’s closet once. 

Derek wandered over and peered quietly at Stiles' frustration, the tone of his mumbled words harsh and rushed as he talked to himself while typing. Stiles was probably aware he was muttering to himself due to the harsh intakes of breath every time he spoke a little too loud, a little too long. Not that it stopped him for more than a couple seconds before he peeled right back into another fiery tangent. 

Stiles just about threw himself out of the chair after he hit the enter key, yelling something about close minded individuals and their lacking respect.

"Stiles?" Derek called, his back to the coffee machines and hands on the other side of the table He was across from Stiles, just barely able to make out the reflection of the laptop screen in his glossy eyes. The younger man looked up and took in a shaky breath, visibly restraining himself from bursting out with whatever hot topic got him riled up. 

To his surprise, Stiles simply replied with a quick "Yeah?" before sagging back into the chair. Derek took it as his cue to meander around the table and stoop over by him, one hand pressed on the table while the other tucked itself against his hip. 

"Group issues?" Derek murmured, faintly recalling the conversation Stiles had with Isaac last week. 

Stiles nodded and grumbled, watching the small pen wiggle back and forth to where the mysterious asshole was typing up a reply. "Some jackwagon decided he wanted to talk gender norms with me but is pushing the idea that gender and sex are the same thing. He's bringing up a whole lot of bullshit like," he paused, flailing his arms miserably around the outskirts of his body, "'oh no you can't do that, boys have dicks and girls have-' well listen here buddy because _we are going to fight._ "

He was interrupted by a lengthy reply from this mystery of a man, Derek’s eyebrows rocketing up from the rumble of noises that made themselves known from his disheveled regular.

Stiles was back to attacking his keyboard when Derek's curiosity got the better of him, gaze wandering to peer thoughtfully over the back of Stiles’ shoulder. He didn't have to read much of the conversation to know the guy was a troll, his own mouth quirking up at the heated (but well thought out) reply Stiles was dishing out. He was honestly expecting the similar onslaught of text language he got in texts, but Stiles had actual grammar on his side while using a laptop, apparently.

Not that it stopped Derek from huffing out a laugh anyway. "You do realize they're probably unaware they're trying to argue against someone who is trans, right? That or they're doing it to get a rise out of you." He shrugged, ready to continue talking until Stiles spun around in the chair, damn near clocking him in the face with his own. 

Derek took a conscious step away from the seat, brows climbing up on his forehead. 

It seemed to take Stiles a couple seconds to process what was said, his mouth diligently opening and closing to form different words, but no sound rumbling out. Not until he swallowed and let his face scrunch up then relax to something akin to surprised. "You knew?" 

The words sounded raspy coming from his mouth, like he chewed them over and decided the taste was too foul to continue with the motion of thought. Derek blinked, a tight smile drawing over his face towards the slowly but surely relaxed one Stiles was pulling. He still looked confused, but the air suddenly felt like a weight was thrown out. Like the conversation from earlier was being replaced by a much better one.

"You and Scott talk a lot," Derek gestured, though the quip of his lips remained upturned long after Stiles began to make huffy noises and turned red. The sight of him did something to Derek, obvious he was fearing the worst but had his whole world flipped around in a matter of seconds. 

Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a mirthless laugh, chewing on his lip before looking back to Derek. "Jesus Christ, you could have told me you knew and I wouldn't be freaking out internally every time I go to say something." 

Derek frowned, but Stiles kept grinning at him. It seemed like whatever Stiles overanalyzed was breaking open, a smile replacing the disgruntled sadness he wore for most of the day. Or most of the week, going by the lack of texts he got. And a missed call from last night that Derek did despite Isaac telling him to leave it be. "I figured you knew I knew. I didn't want to make it a big deal." He offered another light smile, drawing a hand to scrub through his own hair. "Didn't think you'd like it if I treated you differently all the sudden. Or made you feel like you were some sort of special case."

Now that seemed to get Stiles attention, his grin brought down to a comfortable level between pleased and neutral. Maybe even a little bit sheepish. "So...you're cool with it?" His voice wavered, the hopeful spike drawing a chuckle out of Derek. For some reason it was hard for him to stay so calloused, his own excitement from seeing Stiles happy leaving him at a loss for what to say.

So Derek simply nodded and kept up the quirk of his lips. His face was actually starting to burn from how hard it was to keep himself from simply grinning back at the younger man. Something about the situation just simply pleased him.

Maybe it was because he felt like he was doing something right for once.

There was a flash of genuine pleasure in Stiles' face before he started laughing and grinning, the dark circles below his crinkled eyes smoothing out into a much more friendly wave of being.

Derek never really took notice of how flushed Stiles was until he spun away, typing excitedly on his laptop. The tips of his ears were on the edge of a vibrant red, but from the sidelong glances Stiles kept sending him, Derek probably looked about the same. 

"Now this fucker can bite me because I know I make a damn good guy and you just proved it." Stiles barked out a bit of laughter before hitting enter and promptly closing out of the chat box just to bring up another one with a user named Coralwolf. He punched in a quick _troll taken care of. :) sourwolf employee is great confidence booster!!!_ before completely closing his tabs and shutting down the laptop.

Derek finally dragged himself away from Stiles then, only to be stopped with a quick grab to the arm. Instead of tensing up, his body relaxed slightly into the touch as he looked back and rose a brow, focused on the guy who was half sitting in the chair. The other half of him looked ready to leap.

"I just wanted to say thanks, Derek." It was said in a hushed, busy way that had Stiles' mouth drawn into an uncertain curve of a frown, an apology dancing on the tip of his tongue. Derek knew it was coming, he could see it lurking in the way Stiles' grip tightened. 

Except, Stiles didn't say a word when he tugged Derek forward and kissed his cheek, only to let go and shuffle to grab his things before all but sprinting off. 

Derek stood there long after Stiles left with the parting words "I promise I'll not ignore your texts this time!", skin warm from where the brief touch of lips caught him, the sound of the door jingling shut marking the time: six o’clock on the dot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HERE  
> HAHA
> 
> sorry for such a delay! beta and I have been super busy.   
> Hopefully Stiles and his silly actions make up for it! 
> 
> PS: Thanks for nearly 100 kudos holy dang. You guys are amazing!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is unbeta'd, so if there are any errors please feel free to point them out and i'll fix them asap!   
> otherwise, enjoy!

“So...you kissed him?” Lydia’s grin could probably be seen from across the street, regardless of the frigid rain brewing that morning. It kind of made Stiles think about his life from the perspective of a pie, where that was the cherry someone forgot about in the back of the freezer but still used anyway. Most likely because a little freezer burn never hurt anyone. But boy was he wrong.

And now he was paying for it.

Stiles’ forehead hit the cash register he was in charge of with a loud clank that sent the buttons on a spree of clicks and clatters. It was disorienting, especially to his already sleep deprived mind verging on an overdose of caffeine to just stay awake. “On the _cheek_ , Lyds. Cheek. Nothing else kissed nowhere nohow. I don’t even know why I did it.” Gesturing vaguely to the spot on his face where red splotches bloomed, Stiles huffed out a groggy sigh while Lydia preened from her station at the coffee machines. 

“And he didn’t hit you?” She cooed. 

“No, I did my signature move of using flee before he could.”

“I don’t think he would’ve. “ 

Their conversation died off behind the rush of wind and rain, idle gossip about Scott’s triangle love-fest forming between him, Allison and Isaac staying the main focus while Lydia bounced every so often with news about Jackson and the tyrant that was regularly spotted at the gym. She was careful not to mention his name, but Stiles punched the keys with more bravado without even needing to hear it. 

At one point, his thumb jammed a key just right to make a spring pop and his own knuckle flame up in white-hot pain. He may or may not have cried. 

 

Grounds for Thought was relatively empty for the majority of the day however, the weather dipping in between onslaughts of rain and cloudy gray skies, no strand of sunshine leaking its way into Stiles’ heart (or the windows which definitely needed a good wash.) 

A few of the regulars popped in. Most of them consisting of the Church goers Stiles had grown to tolerate, and the old man who he continued to struggled with trying to explain different coffee types. Apparently mentioning pumpkin lattes sparked zealous talk from the old man about whippersnappers and their candy collecting on the upcoming Halloween day. Not that it mattered much to Stiles. His trick-or-treating days were long since gone.

The last time he went was when Scott was still a single-Pringle and _not_ dating Allison. Or Isaac. Both maybe? He didn’t want to know.

Stirring Stiles from his thoughts, the bell’s familiar jingle opened a gate that sent the sound of rain peeling off the sidewalk in clouds just beyond the door and an old man stalling on his spiel. In said doorway stood Derek, perma-scowl accented by thunder howling off in unison just down the black. His leather jacket was sticking to him, one hand stuck flexing and unflexing at his side and the other slowly staggering away from the door before mirroring its partner. He looked like a drowned rat, or more suited to Stiles’ mind, a pre-teen goth kid. 

It was hard not to bite back a grin at the thought of Derek in eyeliner, which Stiles completely assumed he probably wore at some point. Picturing it then though, with the rain and thunder and all of that jazz, had Stiles imagining eyeliner running down Derek’s five o’clock shadow. 

Classic.

At least Derek didn’t look like he wanted to punch anything within ten feet. He actually looked a little bit pleased to see the lanky college student standing there in the grossly coloured apron Mr.Bean insisted his employees wore. It wasn’t beige like Derek’s uncle’s place, so it must’ve been a step up for him on his days off. 

Not that puke-green must’ve brought anything but terror to him due to, well, _that_.

Derek moved with squishy steps across the short distance from door to counter, expression muted and fuzzy brows knit together in such a fashion that the old man spun around and chirped a light “Cheer up, sonny!” before grinning his two-tooth smile and hobbling off. Derek only scowled with more force. 

Okay, so maybe assuming he didn’t want to punch anything was a bit of a stretcher.

Stiles knew Lydia was watching because he could feel her eyes glued to the back of his neck. It wasn’t like he was already fucking blushing or anything, oh no. Not at all. 

Except his _play it cool_ cover was blown when he went to say hello and instead let his elbow slip from the counter, face cracking against wood and a stream of kid-friendly curses spilling from his mouth. He didn’t really register anything past pain and embarrassment, but the pressure of someone’s hand on his shoulder made him look up momentarily from the imprint of sweat and skin he left on Mr.Bean’s counter. 

Derek’s face was a mix of blurred worry and amusement, scowl floundering back to expose a half-hearted smirk. 

“You okay?” Derek mused, grip tight on Stiles’ shoulder while he righted himself up, right hand dragging over his face. A bit of blood came off on his palm which he scrubbed off against his pant leg. 

“Yeah, uh, just gotta-” Stiles’ hand swung back to the bathroom sign tucked away in the employee’s room, head recoiling back against his shoulders before shrugging off Derek’s hand. It was a little too warm for his liking. “Hygiene is important and uh, blood’s not too good in coffee I hear, so.” 

He could make out Derek asking Lydia if running off was a regular thing, and if Lydia’s snort was anything to go by, it was.

 

Stiles returned about five minutes later to the sight of a Derek-free register, and for the first time _ever_ , spotted him sitting at a table smashed into the farthest corner of a shop. It made Stiles a little proud knowing Derek would stay and suck down his coffee amongst strangers rather than peel off into the storm like some super villain. He tossed a quick look at Lydia and grinned, but Lydia was quick to knock him off his pedestal by pointing a painted fingernail at his nose.

The tissue he’d used to stop the bleeding in the bathroom was still there, perfectly visible to the twenty or so pairs of eyes within the shop. 

Derek managed to glance up right when Stiles was pulling the wad of tissue from his nose while making some constipated horse face, a slew of “Oh God blood why blood,” defeating all finer points of grammar he learned back in his twelve or so years of school. Not to mention his current English class which was hell. 

Derek started wheeze laughing when Stiles couldn’t get the tissues out. 

When he did, though, it flung over the gap of space from the restroom to the table and hit Derek square in the jaw. Any more force and it would’ve landed in the guy’s mouth, but that wasn’t the most pleasant mental image to have about mouths on things and thus shot down relatively quickly.

Stiles’ squeak laughing echoed off the walls by the time Derek calmed down enough to snark out a half-hearted threat about blood and throats. He was grinning while he said it, despite the splotch of dry nose blood on his cheek.

The almost-kiss wasn’t mentioned, and Derek left after finishing his coffee without mauling Stiles (though he did have that crazed animal eye going on), so Stiles felt pretty accomplished by the time he was off the clock and headed home. 

___

 

The week approaching pre-party Friday was a lot more laid back than Stiles would’ve assumed it to be. Professors were relatively chill and eased off of workload (aside from Harris, but that guy was just a dick) and told most of the students to be safe and not get killed over the weekend. Something about Halloween just screamed _we have to warn everyone otherwise we’ll be responsible for their untimely demise_ , but Stiles wasn’t complaining. Better safe than sorry.

When Friday did roll around, all of the party supplies Stiles mooched out from Dollar General were stuffed into plastic bags and tossed haphazardly into the back of his Jeep. Most of what he managed to purchase were batches of two dollar streamers, cups and plates for whatever Scott and Isaac were bringing Saturday food-wise, and cardboard cutouts of horror faces to be taped up against bookshelves. He left all of the fancy things to Lydia and Jackson.

In fact, Stiles wouldn’t have brought anything at all, but he’d have to come up with an excuse to why he didn’t, so it was better just to bullshit his way through it like he did most of the essays done for his class. That method’s worked thus for him, and Lydia really couldn’t complain about him trying when he was, in fact, broke as hell. Though that was long since established by the group.

Water from the last few days of rain pooled up against dips in the road, the Jeep making noises of protest in return for every pothole it had to swerve around to avoid losing various nuts and bolts. The air felt cool, windows rolled down enough to let in the breeze while letting out a series of Halloween themed songs that were being played from his phone in return. A few elderly people walking their teacup-sized dogs gave sharp glances when the car passed, but other than that, it was a quiet Friday afternoon.

Derek’s Camaro sat in its usual spot outside Books Begone (hah), the door ajar while Isaac furiously threw streamers over its hinges and coiled the bushes around it in a series of messy spiderwebs. Stiles could see Scott rushing back and forth from his Mom Van to the store with boxes of various things. He was surprised to not see Lydia early too, but her being fashionably late wasn’t completely unusual. If it were a life or death situation, though, they’d all be kind of screwed without her help coming up with plans.

At least she trusted them enough to not fuck up decorating, though. 

The Jeep rolled to a stop next to Mom Van, doors swinging shut as it sputtered and coughed itself back into a stony silence. Stiles was greeted by Scott first, his best friend grinning at him and thrusting up a box of rubber body parts like he had won a lottery. “Look, dude!” Scott yelped, jostling the box around which made a squelching sound in reply. 

Stiles grimaced. “That sounds nasty as hell, Scotty.” 

“Exactly!”

He got the right priorities in mind, at least. Even if said priorities do sound eerily similar to leftover mac ‘n cheese you had to mix to get looking right again. 

Stiles huffed and pulled out the clear bags from the back of the jeep, paper surfaces of the contents inside scratching together and adding to the already screaming plastic. 

A radio buzzing to life as he entered the bookstore made Stiles raise a brow. He passed the streamers Isaac was putting up only to catch an eyeful of Derek slamming his fist against a bulky ass stereo system. The bags dropped to a spot on the floor beside the counter which allowed Stiles to weasel his way over to Derek and peer over the cash register to watch what he was maiming. 

“You got that, big guy?” Stiles asked, feigning what little innocence he had when Derek swung around and glared at him. Even his lip pulled back like a dog. 

“Yeah.” Derek’s short, one syllable answer made Stiles outright laugh. Derek’s puffy brows shot up on his forehead. The start of all their fantastic conversations. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just funny seeing you get so worked up over that little old thing.” Stiles grinned and patted a hand on the machine which puttered off a few jolts of electricity. “I can trade you places if you want to put up some cardboard masks around this place? Liven it up a bit? Get spoopy?” 

Derek seemed to consider it, his hand stalling on the front of the radio before he growled and spun back around on his heel. “Fine, go for it. Not like you can do better. And don’t use the word _spoopy_. It’s fucking dumb.”

Stiles made a mental note to not get involved with Derek on days he was expecting lots of people, which made him think about just how tolerable the employee would be Saturday after tolerating bodies flushing in and out of the store. Instead of dwelling on it for too long, Stiles shrugged and hopped over the counter despite Derek’s pouty puppy look when he did. The latch to get behind it was _right_ there, but that didn’t seem like as much fun. 

 

The radio was fixed in about ten minutes, shitty Halloween music blaring out of nowhere from the speakers, which sent Stiles flinging himself backwards and then forwards to turn it down. He was pretty sure he heard Scott scream from the supply closet, and he _knows_ he saw Derek drop a plastic foot on his way back from behind a shelf. Isaac was outside still, so he was lucky he wasn’t involved in the horror-music heart attacks. 

But of course, the first thing out of Stiles’ mouth when he conquered the radio was: “Eat your words, Derek! Stiles Stilinski, master of electronics and duct tape strikes again!” 

Derek flung Frankenstein’s face at him from halfway across the store. 

 

Lydia and Jackson ended up rolled in around one in the afternoon, with Jackson brooding behind a box full of seemingly expensive decorations (some of them glittered. _Glittered_ ) while Lydia’s hawk eyes scanned the store, perfectly red lips pursed as she stared everything and everyone down. 

The store didn’t look too bad despite how mediocre the decorations were. Stiles was pleased with it, and judging by Derek’s eyebrow height (an inch or so higher than normal), he was too. 

Isaac’s cobweb decoration spanned over the sections of space between every row of shelves and books, streamers marking the entry points with their purply black and orange colours. Derek took liberty in sticking cardboard cutouts behind popular books to scare people if they looked at them, and he even went out of his way to move a few things around so the scariest face (a clown full of razor sharp teeth) stared you down from supply closet. Which Stiles would be avoiding.

Scott may have gone a little overboard scattering various limbs around the bushes outside, but he stuck a head by the register and sticky noted the phrase “Dog’s Food” to its forehead, so Stiles forgave him for it. Derek not so much. 

Lydia placed a hand delicately on her hip and tossed a glance back to Jackson, who dropped the box of crap onto the nearest cart that wasn’t cluttered with books. “So?” Jackson huffed and Lydia cocked a brow in Derek’s direction. 

“Tables decorated?” She inquired.

“Yeah.”

“Cobwebs up?”

“Yep.”

“Fake blood on the windows?”

“Everything’s done besides what you brought.”

Lydia sneered at him but smiled short and sweet soon after. “Good. That makes my life easier. Everyone out.” 

There was a unison of _whats_ that drowned out the sound of _This is Halloween_. Lydia pointed to the door with her diabolical smile pegged in place. “Everyone but Derek.” 

Oh good, special cupcake got special privileges, apparently. 

Everyone filed out of the store in wide, gaping steps akin to scolded children, with Stiles being the worst with his hunched shoulders and moping expression. When they were all outside (Jackson included) Lydia shut the door behind them with a sharp slam. For effect, Stiles guessed.

 

They were outside for two hours. Two freaking hours. 

Scott and Isaac managed to occupy themselves for the majority of the time playing their makeshift version of parking lot lacrosse while Jackson stomped off to brood in his car to the sounds of Lydia’s playlist. 

Stiles fell asleep under a bush with a plastic arm under his chin. 

The door opened with a bit of a creaking noise that caused Stiles to startle awake and peer curiously over to the blacked out room just beyond the door. He groaned and pulled himself up, muttering about Lydia and her flashy parties until he stepped just beyond the door’s threshold and a series insane laughs, backed up by a flash of light, made him yell and stumble backwards. Scott caught him before he hit the pavement, but his heart continued to stammer when Lydia emerged from the door and hummed. “Too much?” 

Derek showed up soon after and, damn it, was grinning down at Stiles. “Nah. Lights need to be toned down, maybe. But that’s it.” 

Stiles tossed him a dirty look before pushing off from Scott and brushing away the invisible dirt from his shoulders. “You’re a dick, Derek.” Derek’s grin merely widened. “And a masochist, Jesus Christ.” 

 

Apparently Lydia and Derek had spent the last two hours wiring up different moving ghouls and ghosts, red lighting added as an accent. The music went from register to surround sound after Lydia stuck speakers in all corners of the store. So much for Stiles’ hard work fixing the one they had. 

He did have to give them props though for making the place look even more uninviting than it originally was, and Stiles felt no shame in propping his arm on Derek’s shoulder to admire their hard work. “Good job, Lassie. Gonna scare off all the kids this season.”

Derek scowled, but Stiles could see the twitch of his mouth from where he was trying not to smile. “That’s the goal.”

Stiles squeezed his shoulder and beamed. “Now all you need is a costume, and then you’re set.”

“I have one.”

It took him a minute, but Stiles did manage to not choke on his spit in between the time it took to look Derek’s perfectly straight face over for confirmation that he really did have a costume. Like, it was already picked out and he was going to wear it. Tomorrow. All day. “Whatcha gonna be?” Stiles mused. “Sexy fireman? King Kong? Godzilla, oh-oh no I got it-”

“Bigby,” Derek said plainly.

Stiles paused, head craning back so he had a multitude of neck-chins. “The coffee place?”

“No, idiot. Bigby Wolf. From Fable.” 

Oh, that was _golden._ “Oh my God. You’re a real life _nerd_. Holy shit this is the best day of my life-” 

Stiles continued to ramble about an assortment of different things he could make fun of about Derek’s chosen attire, but Derek only rolled his eyes and huffed. Most involved his already blossoming stereotype of relating Derek to a wolf/dog/etc. at any given moment.

“Stiles.” 

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes blown wide and mouth hanging open from where a word was forming. “Ee-yup?”

“Shut up.”

“Right, of course, Big Bad.” Stiles smirked and wiggled his fingers around before Derek batted his hands away. 

“Enough with the wolf puns, too, it’s getting old.”

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, Derek?”

Derek threw the plastic head at him that time, to which Stiles laughed and darted off chanting _Wolf Cop_ over and over. 

At least after tomorrow everything would be back to normal.


	14. Chapter 14

When Stiles showed up a little after two in the afternoon on the dreaded day-of-partying, he was more than a little shocked to see people willingly milling around in the store. Not just standing and looking for an excuse to never look up from their feet, but actively digging through the books and shelves that lined beige city with distinct interest. Some people were even talking to Derek. Actual, verbal communication from one body to another. That’s not to say Stiles wasn’t the slightest bit proud of Derek for putting on a facade of minimal interest, because he was, but he couldn’t actually force himself to offer any sort of compliment when he saw just what Derek looked like.

Derek, despite his complete and utter distaste about it in the first place, had gone all out for his costume. His usual five o’clock shadow was shaded in different layers of what Stiles assumed was really detailed layers of mascara and hair that probably grew in overnight, spreading over each sharp angle of his jaw and thickening at the chin. His eyebrows somehow got more puffy, black arches meeting the jaw scruff in flawlessly smooth strokes. There wasn’t much to be done about his actual hair, however, but it looked a bit more spiky and unkempt than usual.

The real magic was drawn from the slight curl of Derek’s mouth where pointed canines flashed themselves just behind a layer of peach coloured skin. Or, well, bruised peach maybe? Stiles is pretty sure a smudge of mascara was covering his lips, or maybe that was their natural-

Forget it, spacing out. 

They looked pretty real is the main point Stiles was getting at, that and the point Derek’s ears ended in. Which were pink and roughly cut off right before the point started. Why were his ears pink. Actually, how long-

“Stiles,” Derek snapped, abruptly cutting off Stiles’ internal monologue of Derek’s facial features. His mouth was curled into a grimace, though whatever displeasure he tried to convey was lost from the equally pink tone that splashed over his neck. _That long_ the little voice provided, which was more than enough of a signal for Stiles to amend for his personal sins and flash the widest, dumbest smile in Derek’s general direction.

Which probably came off as forced and murder-esque if the face of horror Derek returned was anything base it off of. “Afternoon, Big Bad.” Stiles toned down his grin, Derek’s face visibly relaxing after a few short moments of obvious regret at calling out his name.

Instead of being civil and replying with an “afternoon to you too” or “hey, fantastic weather we’re having,” Derek’s condescending look returned with the pointed question of “Where’s your costume.” 

Actually, it was more of an indirect command of _put on said costume,_ which Stiles had no intention of following. “Um, hello? Earth to Derek? I don’t work here.”

“With all the internet you mooch off of me, you probably should be. At least part time.”

Stiles grunted and stuck his tongue out at the man before wriggling through the store and in the seat closest to the counter. Being around a bunch of people he didn’t actually know was just calling for unneeded panicking. “I’ll put it on later if that makes you happy.” He quipped, lugging out a book from his bag and slapping it on the table. 

It was one of his stupidly expensive textbooks for Criminology, one that Stiles was highlighting with the dull end of a marker when Derek casually replied with, “It will.”

The pen cap that had been in Stiles’ mouth found itself halfway across the floor under a very offended man’s shoe. So long, pink highlighter. He spun around to shoot the employee a look, but several girls in crop tops carrying several books took the spotlight that was the counter. So much for witty comebacks. 

 

By the phrasing later, Stiles originally meant not until the party started, but at five o’clock Derek got Stiles to change in the storage room because he claimed Isaac’s costume wasn’t lively enough. 

Stiles wasn’t really sure why Derek didn’t consider Isaac’s _Where’s Waldo_ costume interesting and/or lively because he could really pull it off, and that alone was enough to make several people look at him with slacked jaws and wide eyes. 

Needless to say, Derek standing guard outside the storage room’s door was a bit of an excessive move just to make sure Stiles did as told. He’d do it regardless, but maybe with a bit more rushed excuses that would ultimately fail under the ever disapproving scowl Derek seemed to bestow upon him. 

Stiles’ knuckles rattled against the dusty wood when he was done changing, and the eerie creak of the hinges made his face scrunch up. He could see just past the length of Derek’s (you guessed it) beige sleeve to the red and white stripes of Isaac’s hat peering out from behind. Expecting the onslaught of scrutiny, Stiles opened his mouth to defend himself only to be silenced by the sound of Derek choking on nothing and Isaac cackling in the distance.

“Told you,” Isaac preened, thick lense-less glasses slipping as he held back more laughter. He wasn’t good at it, for the moment Derek went to say something, he burst out into a melody of squeaks and wheezing. 

Stiles felt himself burn red long before he caught the blush weighing down on Derek’s face. Derek looked, well, surprised. Which, okay. Stiles _was_ wearing some risky clothing for a costume in front of tons of people, but hey. He wanted to live a little.

“That’s leather,” Derek pointed out, though it was more or less with his eyes than anything else. His fingers were white knuckling the door and wall and his mouth was too busy keeping itself slapped shut to offer anymore elaboration on the comment. 

“Well, no actually it’s not. It’s faux leather I think? Lydia picked up the pants for me so I’m not really sure what the hell this stuff actually is, but it works.” Stiles splayed out his arms before propping his hands on his hips. “Can you guess who I am?” 

Derek’s brows furrowed, eyes dragging themselves away from the not-leather leather if not for a moment. “Dread Pirate Roberts,” he said, without so much as missing a beat. 

Stiles only huffed and tutted at him, one finger waggling. “Dread Pirate Roberts has nothing on Dread Pirate _Stiles_. I’m a little sad that you’d insult me like that, Derek. I make this costume look way better and you know it.” 

Which was apparently the wrong thing to say because Derek scowled, looked over Stiles once more, then spun around with his hands balled into fists at his side and stormed back off to his make-shift counter den. Isaac still looked pretty pleased with himself when he offered Stiles a thumbs up before going back to his bookkeeping duties. 

Stiles’ leather pants squeaked their way back to his spot at the table with only minor levels of difficulty. 

 

The main part of the day went by with varying levels of actual book selling, but it did spike a lot of interest nonetheless. Stiles could tell Derek was at least somewhat pleased by selling thirty or so books during the six hours they were open for business, and if not for the money, it was probably from getting rid of all the junk his uncle bestowed upon him. 

When the actual party was scheduled to start, Stiles took liberty in setting up the music and fancy lights while Derek and Isaac brought out the food and drinks. It was a buffet style table set up on the counter Derek had been bagging up books most of the day, and just behind said counter was where Stiles assumed booze would be handed out. He knew Derek wasn’t the one doing that because he never returned behind the bar and instead went to manage the front door. Which introduced a face Stiles had never seen before, and one that was vaguely familiar.

“Stiles?” was the first thing said before Derek’s gaze snapped back to look at him in a quiet stormy sort of confusion. How the shorter figure knew his name was beyond him, but Stiles went along with it anyways. 

“Heyyy, uh-” 

“It’s Cora! Shit, Coralwolf.” The girl- _Cora _\- said instantly. That was enough to make Stiles gasp a little bit and let out an unhealthy sounding screech. The man beside her quirked a brow, lip splitting into a slanted grin while Derek looked mortified.__

__Stiles didn’t even get a chance to say anything else before he was wrapped up in the tightest hug he’d possibly ever felt, his own arms fumbling to find purchase around her shoulders before he was _lifted_ off the ground. When his feet found themselves back on the stupid rug, Cora was grinning from behind her Cheshire facepaint and false whiskers. _ _

__Both of them started talking at once, Cora with “How come we never-” and Stiles biting out a “Holy shit.”_ _

__Then they were laughing and Cora was wheezing out curses about them being blind as hell while Derek scowled and mystery man smirked at him from the shade of a top hat._ _

__Mystery man was the one to break the silence with a quick clearing of his throat, ghoulish laughter from their Halloween playlist flowing out in unison to his tone. “Boyfriend meets online girlfriend for the first time, Cora?” He cooed, though the venom in his words made Stiles’ bites of laughter pitter out into huffing gasps._ _

__Cora’s own language took a sharp turn, her sense of humor jaded behind a pointed smile. “I’m pretty sure Stiles is already taken. But that’s none of your concern, _Uncle_.”_ _

__Well, if that wasn’t something to be frightened about. Actually- “Holy shit, wait, _that’s_ your Uncle? Which...that means-”_ _

__“Cora’s my sister. And that thing is my Uncle, too. Peter. Uncle Peter.” Derek’s voice peaked out from behind the weight of the room, eyes zeroed in on what Stiles assumed to be his own red face or Cora’s wickedly pleased smile._ _

__“Oh my God, and you never told me?” Stiles seethed, one hand clasping the edge of Cora’s fuzzy wrist cuff. He knew he was burning he could feel it crawl over every inch of his skin, mouth dry and lips split from where the cool air was squeezing all the moisture out of them._ _

__Peter hummed, toothy smile breaking past whatever animosity was quite obviously being dished out at him by both of his family members. “I feel like I’m missing something here. Why is knowing our relation to one another so important to you?” The man paused, a black gloved hand worming its way out to scratch at an itch on his chin Stiles assumed wasn’t even there. “Ah, wait, I get it. You’ve been speaking about Derek to Cora without realizing it haven’t you? Just like Derek has?”_ _

__Stiles’ mouth floundered open to shoot back a remark, but Cora laughed again and Derek growled from under the storm cloud brewing over his head. “Peter, quit. I can and will throw you out of your own store and you know it.”_ _

__Peter seemed to take that into consideration before he shrugged and smiled again, body somehow gracefully dipping off behind the counter. Which meant he was the one distributing the alcohol for the night. Which _also_ meant Stiles was not going to get drunk like he wanted to and forget about the possible disasters big crowds of people had._ _

__Awesome._ _

__

__People began to file in when the sun found itself sinking back behind a row of mountains and trees. Of course, said mountains were barely visible from rows upon rows of houses and the likes, but hey. Stiles could picture it in his mind’s eye and that’s all that mattered. Among the familiar (and not so familiar) faces were Scott, Lydia, Jackson and even Boyd and Erica. Stiles assumed they were friends with Isaac by the somewhat tender smiles directed to the mop-haired kid. Stiles, however, was happy enough to just flash a quick wave before tucking himself back into his seat and plucking at an assortment of snacks in the center of the table._ _

__The music was loud enough that it drowned out the noise of voices and people, bass thrumming evenly and coating everything in its path with a sort of spellbound after effect. Stiles knew he was humming along but didn’t really make an effort to stop, not even when Scott bounded over to him and practically tripped over a plastic dismembered leg in the process._ _

__“Stiles!” Scott yelled, his voice also lost in the canopy of sound. His hand fumbled out and gripped his friend’s shoulder with a bit of force, blunt nails dragging back the itchy fabric that made up Stiles’ shirt._ _

__Stiles grimaced, eyes lifting from where they were focused on the table. He barely recognized anything about Scott aside from the lopsided smile hidden under, well, a poorly constructed puppy costume. In all honesty, Stiles hadn’t even seen Scott before then aside from briefly catching him appear through the door. He was too busy talking to Cora and ignoring the way Derek’s scowl burned into the back of his neck._ _

__He was only the slightest bit proud to have gotten through without asking something dumb like _has Derek said anything about me? Did_ you _say anything about me?._ No. At least his luck granted him that brief flash of comfort. _ _

__That all kind of turned to shit when Scott made vague, frantic gestures towards the open floor of the bookstore. He was trying to say something, Stiles saw how his mouth was moving, erratic and fishlike, but the music kicked up again in a flurry of heated eighth notes and static. The bright flashes of reds and purple light didn’t help dismantle his actions either._ _

__Not until Scott squeezed his shoulder and his voice wheeled over the music in a heated “I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t know.”_ _

__Stiles allowed his eyes to follow where Scott’s face angled back, blazing colours nowhere near enough to stop the surge of dread that pounded through him. No, not even close, because what _Stiles_ saw was the same guy from ten years ago standing there, smiling with light glossed teeth in his direction, eyes predatory and knowing._ _

__And that was enough to make his stomach drop six feet under._ _

__

__“Fuck,” Stiles gasped, mouth hovering over all sorts of lost syllables on the tip of his tongue. _Fuck_. He should have known, he should have seen it coming it made so much fucking sense and-_ _

__“Stiles!” Scott yelled his name again, both hands finding purchase on the baggy sleeves of Stiles’ costume. His puppy nose make-up was crinkled at either corner, worry painting his normal brown eyes various other shades. “Stiles, okay, okay we need to- Shit, hold on.”_ _

__Scott ran off, giving Stiles enough time to seize the moment and stumble out from his chair towards the closest type of safety he could find. He couldn’t fucking do it, not here. Not around so many people._ _

__Stiles knew he on the verge of crying before he even stepped a foot into the storage closet, the door slamming shut behind himself, and the sound of heavy music dulled between boxes upon boxes of books. His throat was burning, hands reflexively clutching either side of himself. _Fuck, not here. Not right now._ _ _

__His legs stumbled to a stop at the farthest end of the closet, hands coasting up to his ears to further block out the noise. He was overreacting, for fucks sake. He knew it because he hadn’t seen that asshole in _ten years._ For anyone else, they’d just move on and get over it and grow up like normal people do. Not him, no. Never him._ _

__No, his brain had to fuck it all up and remind him at that very moment he was cornered, and the only way out was into the darkening street or a closet._ _

__A closet which shuddered from a forceful knock on the other side._ _

__Stiles winced at the sound, his own name sounding foreign below the rush of blood in his ears. He had to get over it. It was fine, he was fine. He couldn’t get hurt here. Scott wouldn’t let him get hurt here. Derek wouldn’t-_ _

___”Stiles!”_ _ _

__The door opened._ _

__To see Derek standing there with such a worried look on his face almost made Stiles burst into tears. Or scream. He couldn’t really figure out past the sound of the bass and Scott’s figure blocking someone else from just behind Derek’s shoulders. He wanted to throw himself into Derek’s arms and just _sob_ because he could. Instead, he uttered a whine that sounded something like “shut the door” before coiling in on himself further. _ _

__Derek didn’t waste any time obliging to his request and was crouched out in front of Stiles the moment the hinges snapped shut. Derek’s hand outstretched, paused, and Stiles made a small choked off noise before throwing both hands out and all but dragging Derek into himself._ _

__It was so stupid._ _

__“Stiles? Stiles, what’s going on? Scott- Scott told me you were-” Derek’s body was tense from where Stiles was half burrowed against him, face smashed into his shoulder and hiccuping sounds rising from the back of his throat. The guy relaxed once Stiles stopped squirming, his breath going from rapid and uncoordinated to just ragged heaves._ _

__Stiles let Derek coax him out of his almost panic attack, soft mumbles and apologies of _it’s okay_ overtaking whatever yelling was going on beyond the door. It was deja vu, and Stiles felt himself bubbling on the verge of being sick at the thought of it. “Theo,” he croaked out finally. “Theo’s here and--fuck, Derek he’s here and I-” _ _

__“Breathe, Stiles. He won’t hurt you here.”_ _

__“This is awful I shouldn’t be upset over this I should. I should be fine I’m better than this I-”_ _

__Derek pushed Stiles back by his shoulders in such a swift movement that Stiles' mouth floundered to a stop before he even caught the vulnerable look that consumed Derek’s face. His stupid costume hid the deep furrow of his brow, but it was still faint enough to pick out in the dusty storage room. Derek was close enough that Stiles could smell the burnt coffee on his breath, short puffs just deep enough to give some sort of comfort to his lungs._ _

__“Stiles, stop. Whatever happened- whatever reason you have for reacting like this is valid. Stop blaming yourself for things you can’t control it’s not your fault. You’re safe, you’re alright here. I’m not going to yell at you or tell you it’s all your fault when I know damn well how it feels to be scared of something- _someone_ so much that it sends your whole being into shock.” Derek paused, his eyes flicking shut before exhaling in a somewhat shaking breath. “Your emotions are valid.”_ _

__Stiles opened his mouth to say something, anything to fill the void the stillness of the air, but no words came out. Instead, his hands fumbled up and curled desperately at either corner of Derek’s beige button down, and his lips crashed none too delicately to Derek’s coffee bitten ones._ _

__Any boundaries he had before that minor confession were lost despite Derek’s startled noises or the way Derek’s own hands seemed to tighten on Stiles’ shoulders. He ignored the faint buzz of _too much_ surging through his head and instead invited the slower, calmer feeling that distraction brought. Derek never kissed back, but he didn’t pull away either._ _

__What he did do though, was look absolutely wrecked by the time Stiles found it hard to breathe again for entirely different reasons. Derek’s face was flushed and his werewolf ears were that weird pink slash latex colour, kaleidoscope eyes blown to the edges._ _

__Stiles cleared his throat and let his hands unclasp from Derek’s shirt, the pads of his fingers patting down the beige. “Sorry, I- that’s the most you’ve said to me in one single sitting and I guess I got carried away.”_ _

__Derek’s own fingers flexed, palms dropping down to rest on Stiles’ forearms. He snorted, weak and a little forced, but didn’t resort to any sort of anger. He actually looked a little happy. “You’re fine, it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting that. In here.”_ _

__“Lydia kissed me once to stop me from having a panic attack. I just kind of...I don’t know, fuck. I’m trying to thank you. Again. For all of this.”_ _

__Nothing else was said between them, the music having slowed down enough to make it clear that Scott’s angry voice was gone and the gentle tap of knuckles on the door louder than they must’ve been before. It shuddered open just as Derek pulled Stiles back up onto his feet, both Scott and Cora peering in with equally concerned faces._ _

__Derek flashed them a partially bitter smile while Stiles eased his hands into his pockets. His chest was still burning, most likely from all the extra pressure his binder added during the meltdown. Scott caught on to that and gave him a stern look, brows furrowing. “Derek, is it possible you could-”_ _

__“Drive him home? I can. If he wants to.”_ _

__Stiles gave a mute nod, grumbling about his clothes and ignoring the pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. “Isn’t your Camaro here?”_ _

__“I thought we could take it,” Derek stated plainly._ _

__Scott pushed the door open a little further and made room for Derek to begin his way out. “I can drive the Jeep back to your apartment when the party’s over, I mean. I rode with Isaac so…”_ _

__“No, yeah I get it I- It’s fine. Camaro’s fine.”_ _

__

__Despite the bad experience Stiles had in the Camaro before, the ride was the most calming thing he’d experienced in the last week. The windows were rolled down just enough to let clean air filter through, some sort of classic rock station oozing out through the stereos at a low volume. Derek was focused and quiet though every now and then he made a comment about how irritating it was to drive with a bucket’s worth of plastic on his face._ _

__Derek had also asked Stiles if he wanted to go back to his apartment, to which Stiles had hesitated and resulted in Derek offering to drive him back to his uncle’s loft where he spent the weekends. Stiles didn’t refuse. The idea of being alone with Theo close by made every hair on his body stand on edge._ _

__It was a longer drive out there, that was the only downside. In between red lights and various second thoughts on having Derek take him home, Stiles found himself sinking back further into the leather seating. “Theo outed me to our whole grade before I was even sure about everything.”_ _

__For some reason, saying it made every negative thought a little more quiet. A little less dramatic. Derek acknowledged this by humming for Stiles to continue._ _

__So he did._ _

__“I shouldn’t still be so bitter about it but, Jesus Derek, I was what? Eleven? Ten? I was still scared shitless about so many things and Theo knew, he _knew_ I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Except I trusted him, and Scott and I were his friends, I even kind of liked him. But then he told me he only wanted Scott as a friend and spewed so much shit I told him into the air, I just…” Stiles paused, thumbing the window lock with idle interest. “It’s kind of hard to be okay with someone who just made your childhood a lot more shitty than it needed to be. That’s not to say I’m not okay now. _ _

__“I am, I mean. With myself. I’m _happy_ with me. I’m proud of me for doing what I do. I just wonder if things would’ve been different if he hadn’t done what he did. Or kept reminding everyone about it after. I don’t know.” _ _

__If Derek had an opinion on it, he didn’t say it. Instead, he let Stiles fiddle with the radio and turn up the volume on some garbage rap station. He let Stiles mutter about various other topics and avoid the question and his feelings. He just let Stiles _be_._ _

__Derek also had his hand on Stiles’ knee the entire time, so Stiles guessed there were really no words that needed to be said. The occasional flexing of his fingers was enough to convey all that couldn’t be spoken through their words._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha!  
> minor tw for stiles' potential panic attack  
> we haven't seen the last of theo, so be prepared.
> 
> thanks to my pal mat for proofing this chapter!


	15. Ch. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BACK, SORT OF.  
> A lot has been going down in my life (I actually started T about four months ago almost now), senior year has picked up ten-fold and I just haven't had the time to sit down and write these two like I've wanted. Hopefully I'll be able to update once every month or so from now on, but honestly if anything else pops up you can catch it on my tumblr (homochexual.tumblr.com). I've really missed the Sterek fandom, so hopefully my writing has improved a bit since then!
> 
> Ch. 15 is a little old in regards to writing, but the page or two is all new. Chapter 16 will be brand new, haven't started it yet. 
> 
> I'm really sorry for such a stupidly long wait, but thank you to those who've been leaving kudos and comments! If I leave this go for a long time someone please just come bark at me to work on it, because I want to finish it. 
> 
> Again, thank you! I hope this chapter isn't too bad, and here's to the future ones being better!

Impulse. That’s really all that had been guiding Stiles thus far, between going to the bookstore the first time and ultimately staying, and striking up a conversation when he really didn’t need to. Not that it was a big bother, no. He liked it, enjoyed the fact that his loud mouth and behavior didn’t result in snobby eyed glances or blatantly bad comebacks better left unsaid. That’s not to say it didn’t surprise him any less when Derek Hale of all people not only tolerated but seemed to enjoy it too. Which is why Stiles damn near flung himself from a comfy, unfamiliar leather couch the moment his mind reminded him that _he had to work._

The leather squished under his body as Stiles tried to wriggle his way off of it, though a heavy blanket sat still over him and held all his limbs in the same general place. Not only that but his feet were kind of wedged up against someone’s hip, and each time he tried to move, an arm slung over his ankles to hold him still.

Blearily, Stiles craned his head off from the armrest, mouth half slacked open and hair mussed in all directions from a pillow that had been smooshed up against his cheek. 

At the other end of the couch sat Cora, still in her pajamas (superhero ones, though Stiles couldn’t make out who), sketching absently on off-white paper. She didn’t bother looking up when she grinned and said, “Don’t even think about it, Stiles. Lydia called your phone this morning and I answered. She said if you showed up to work she’d make you scrub the floors. Among other bathroom-related things.” 

Stiles grunted and Cora’s arm lifted off of his ankles giving him just enough room to pull his legs back so he could sit up. “Don’t you know about privacy?” 

He was joking, of course, and Cora caught onto it and gave a slight half smile before shrugging.

“What even happened last night? I know Derek brought me here in his car but-”

“You fell asleep on the drive over and he carried you inside, apparently.” Cora scribbled something into the corner of her sketchbook before finally looking up. Her face contorted in Stiles’ direction. “You need a shower,” she mumbled. And then Stiles’ stomach gurgled in reply. “And food. There're bagels on the counter. There’s a lot.” 

“Derek carried me?” It wasn’t impossible. Stiles was basically a walking stick with a few gangly limbs, so someone who more than likely bench pressed an entire car could easily drag his ass inside. Or throw him onto a bed. Or-

Actually, scratch those thoughts. Those are bad thoughts. 

Thoughts not needed while around Cora who was still watching him like a hawk, one brow raised and an amused smirk on her lips. Cora didn’t need to answer him. He could feel his skin crawl red and quickly pulled the blanket further around himself before hopping off the couch and glancing around. 

Peter’s place, he assumed. It was simple, mostly undecorated aside from a few paintings and plants. They had a flat screen TV set to some morning news though from Cora’s side comments it was probably Derek or Peter’s idea. Everything else was, well, pretty basic. Homey. Stiles cleared his throat and turned, making his way across the floor to the open kitchen. 

Cora wasn’t wrong about the bagels; apparently a bagel-God walked through and deposited, at least, twenty different types onto the counter, along with what smelled like ridiculously rich coffee with creamer. Stiles must’ve made a sort of noise because the next thing he knew, Cora was perched up and peering at him over the back of the couch.

She grinned, either from Stiles blanket cocoon or his slightly provocative sounds about food and wiggled her brows. “The cinnamon bagels are the best. Derek brought them this morning before doing his run.” 

Cinnamon it was. 

So Stiles stood there, asking about whether they had cream cheese and if their toaster was like his and burned everything that was stuffed in it, and after about ten minutes of bagel-making, Stiles flopped back onto the couch with a breakfast that wasn’t off brand cereal for once in his life. 

He ended up making Cora one too, and they ate in companionable silence for a little while in between making comments about the news, Peter’s decorating skills and the aftermath of the party. 

“So Theo is a big bag of dicks, basically?” Cora mused, face hidden behind a mug with a dog pun on it. _Bark-fast is important,_ it said.

“Yeah. I mean, shit I guess I should probably have figured out a better way to deal with it by now but. I just look at him or hear his name and it’s like ‘Oh, good Stiles. Great! Freak out, throw yourself into a panic attack.’” He shrugged, licking cream cheese from the edge of his thumb. 

Cora thought for a moment before stretching, sketchbook falling off of her lap and onto the space between them. “It happens, Stiles. The good thing is that you got out of there, yeah? The party wasn’t that cool anyways. I mean Derek might have a bunch of new customers, but it was mostly Peter creeping on everyone and Scott, right? Scott eyeballing Theo like a rabid dog.”

“Sounds like my bro.” Oh, Scott. He’d have to thank him properly with a pizza or something eventually. When he had the money. “Speaking of brothers, when is Derek supposed to be back?” 

“Probably in a half hour. I think it’s only like seven, right?”

“No wonder I wanna pass out on the floor.” 

Cora laughed.

 

By the time Derek got back home, Cora and Stiles were knees deep in a boxing match on Wii. Stiles was lacking any sort of coordination beyond the visible flailing of his arms, and Cora was more or less hunkered into one corner of the couch in a predatory stance that made Derek blink and take a few steps back. Maybe if he left before they noticed the day would stay quiet.

Not that the thought lasted much longer when Stiles threw his controller down just as Cora’s arms rose up to the sound of victory. 

She beat him three to one from the look the little-pixelated icons gave on screen.

“Um,” Derek coughed, clearing his throat. Stiles’ swung around on the couch with weirdly glossy eyes, and Cora looked equally excited from where she was hunched over.

“Derek!” She called, her foot jutting out momentarily to shove itself against Stiles who was flipping her off not so casually from behind the safety of a pillow. Derek’s caterpillar eyebrows scrunched inwards, and the creases on his skin sent off a lazy glow from the blue light of the TV. 

“Hi,” he huffed, carefully jutting out his thumb in the direction of what Stiles assumed was his room. “Gonna go shower. Stiles, you want to… Go for a walk after?”

Stiles blinked, still half heated by his loss in the glorious battle of boxing the Wii produced and took another look towards Cora. Who was smirking. He scowled, then tossed his gaze back to Derek who seemed more alarmed and confused than frumpy. “Yeah! Sure, I mean sure. That sounds nice. Like a walk-walk, like to a park or something or do you have a dog I don’t know about?”

Derek frowned, damp hair clinging to his forehead. “A walk to a park. An actual human park. Not a dog park.” 

“Oh! Good, that sounds good. Cool.”

“Cool.” Derek paused. “Gonna… Go shower. Feel free to use the other one, or wait if-”

_“Shit.”_

“Um… Stiles?”

Somewhere in between Stiles stumbling over his own words and Derek’s struggle to find them, Stiles was feeling himself up on the couch with a look that sort of screamed _I made a mistake_. Cora looked confused for a split second before she seemed angrier than anything, and her own hands were reaching out before Stiles had the chance to swat them back with what little power he mustered up. They were both making low, grumbly noises but Cora was the one who was louder, bits of _you need to take it off_ and _don’t you dare leave that thing on_ audible every so often.

It just looked and sounded really damn awkward from where Derek stood, shifting on his feet, but if he had to guess- “Cora?”

And then Stiles was up off the couch and being shoved into Cora’s bedroom by none other than her, Stiles already pulling off his shirt in a frenzied mess of arms and fabric. She shut the door behind him, leaning on it briefly as the sound of fabric rustled behind the clean beige door. “What’s wrong?” Derek asked, and the concern in his voice must’ve been more apparent than he first thought because Cora’s head snapped up to attention, her mouth curving down at the corners as she rolled her eyes. 

“Stiles never took off his binder last night,” she mumbled. 

“Binder?” Derek parroted. 

“Yeah, his- oh. Shit, did he not tell you?” 

Derek frowned, then crossed his arms gently over his chest, the sticky feeling of the damp henley making his skin crawl. “Tell me what?” He mouthed, and Cora chewed on her lip after a moment. 

She dragged a hand through her hair, superman pajamas rumbling as her arm moved. “It’s nothing, Der. Don’t-”

“He’s transgender, right?”

And then his sister paused, hand still tangled in her hair and eyes flicking open to watch her brother carefully. Derek’s frown morphed into something harsher before his own eyes rolled. A family trait, that eye rolling. He could hear her go “how did you-” but he simply waved his hand. “I’m not dumb, Cora. He and Scott talk about it a lot at the library, and Scott’s already tried telling me once to ‘be gentle’ around him. Plus, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard his name. Your skype calls make a lot more sense now. I was asking what a _binder_ was. I don’t think I’ve heard him mention it.” 

Cora let out a soft sigh of relief though she looked visibly flushed and frustrated from where she leaned back against the door. The shower started a few moments after they both quieted down, and if Derek had to assume- Stiles must’ve been listening. It made him feel awkward, a little embarrassed, but he hadn’t said anything wrong, right? Cora would’ve punched him if he did. 

She moved away from the door to take up Stiles’s previous position on the couch, her body making a _whump_ when her shoulders hit its squeaky exterior. “I didn’t know, Der,” she mumbled though Derek didn’t do much more than shake his head. “Hey! I don’t exactly go asking who all he has and hasn’t told. Just surprised you took the time _to_ figure it out, that’s all.” 

Derek’s arms uncrossed as he moved, and for a minute he thought about sprawling out on the couch too, but he decided on stooping over the back, arms crossed over the framing and chin resting a little too roughly on his own skin. “S’not really a big deal, I don’t think. Kid’s got more guts than anyone I’ve met recently to be as proud- and loud- about it as he is.” 

“Since when did you get so soft?” Cora amused though by her facial expression it looked as though she was just trying to lighten the situation up. Derek offered a lazy smile back at her own delighted one. 

“I can care about people too, _Coralwolf._ ” He mumbled, and Cora let out a short laugh. 

“I still have to score those logo entries, don’t I?” 

“Yep.” 

“Ah well, I’ll do it soon. Go get your shower you big dope, I’ll let Stiles steal some of your clothes then so you guys can go for a walk together.” Cora’s brows wiggled, and as Derek lurched back to go, he swung a hand over the back of her head playfully. She laughed again, catching his wrist for a moment before pushing him off. “Go! Go, you smell like the great outdoors.”

And Derek huffed, but he was still grinning as he trudged back towards his room. “Der?” Cora called, causing him to pause and turn to look at her. “Talk to him about it, ‘kay? Don’t do that thing you do when you wanna know something. He likes talking about it.”

“Okay,” Derek replied. “Okay.”


	16. Chapter 16

Ch. 16

It took him ten minutes flat to shower. Record time considering he liked to think himself the king of long showers. That is when he still lived with his dad and didn’t have to worry about the water bill going way over his head. But, even with the squeaky clean floors of Peter Hale’s expensive-slash-horror-flick worthy flat, Stiles didn’t give himself much time to languish in the life of money before he was fidgeting out of his skin and into Cora’s room with nothing more than one of her lavender coloured towels hooked around his chest. He still hated that, the whole not being able to meander around shirtless thing. Heck- he tried to when he first moved into the crummy little apartment by the university, but between his odd class schedule and the impromptu visits from Scott (though he could care less if his bro caught him shirtless) and Isaac and, well, everyone else- _that _little dream of his was crushed while still a spark.__

__Even there in the space of his second best friend and wonderfully talented forum-partner Stiles felt naked without the damn piece of fabric hugging his armpits to hell and back. Except when he dropped the towel in favor of the sweater and too-long sweats (going commando, he guessed) laid out on the bed, a quick once over of his much-dreaded chest reminded him of his love/hate relationship with the binder. He had sores from wearing it too long creasing over his skin and granted it didn’t _hurt_ \- Stiles could still feel the tightness of his chest even though he was free for the time being. A sharp, niggling little pain rolled up through the center and over his collarbone as he shimmied the towel to his waist, fingers pulling up the sweater that had no more patterns than anything else in the flat. _ _

__It smelled warm, at least. Sweet and a bit like aftershave. Stiles liked the smell and rubbed absently at his jaw, pinpricks of sandy stubble present over his lackluster complexion. It had taken him far too long to grow even this much hair on his face and, for a moment, he sulked on the idea that maybe his chest would remain the ever problem causing thing that it was. He didn’t have money, didn’t have a solid job, drowned himself in college debts because he refused to have his dad pay for more than he could- it was all a bit overwhelming._ _

__Stiles swallowed the thick, chalky feeling that settled in his throat and pulled the sweater over his head. The baggy yet soft brown material sat loosely around his frame and he gave a small little smile at the fact it didn’t show off anything more than a bump if you looked close enough._ _

__After drying off the rest of his legs he pulled on the sweats and fumbled with the knot someone tied freakishly tight in the lace before he managed to get it snug enough so the pants didn’t completely fall down. He used the old finger-as-a-toothbrush trick and topped it off by sporting Cora’s scentless deodorant. And _then_ Stiles frickin’ Stilinski was ready to do something other than play Wii and shove wonderfully fresh baked goods in his face._ _

__That is until he popped open Cora’s door and saw Derek in an oversized leather jacket and weirdly fitted jeans and- he blinked, looked down at himself, and crossed his arms over his chest in a half ass attempt to keep himself calm about looking like someone’s ragtag model. He had no reason to be nervous, not really. He kissed Derek once- or was it twice?- but both of those were purely life or death with no lusty afterthoughts attached. Though he did run flailing after kissing Mr. Broody-bean on the cheek which, in his defense, was a pretty good tactic at the time._ _

__Now though?_ _

__Now Derek stood with the intention of walking with him for a prolonged period of time after Cora puked Stilinski-information all over his sweaty walk worn henley. Information that he’d also apparently known._ _

__Derek smiled his weird half-smile regardless of Stiles’ internal freakout about his transness, a topic of which he would always be his own devil’s advocate on. Derek didn’t look mad or flustered or even a little bit turned off by the idea of Stiles not having… well. The right ‘bits’. He just looked… normal._ _

__Like they’d known each other for years and Stiles wasn’t coming out of the closet in a flash of silk and glitter, not that he ever would._ _

__It made the jittering of his leg calm by a fraction and after a few quick glances to a devious but sincere Cora, Stiles lifted the fingers of one crossed hand and puttered out a small, “hi.”_ _

__Derek cracked a brow up and did the same hand wiggling gesture in reply, though his ‘hi’ was limited to mouthing the word instead of actually saying it. Which was good enough for Stiles._ _

__They exchanged a few more moments of mutual silence before Cora caved and made a retching noise, her hands dashing out and batting Derek on the worn leather he was sporting. “Go, go! Get out of here before Peter shows up and wonders why Derek looks like he’s ready for date night.”_ _

___That_ made Derek flush red despite how his scowl returned full force. It must’ve been what Cora was aiming for because he spun on his heel and scruffed a hand over his little sister’s hair before stalking off in his usual brooding fashion. Cora cackled again and gave an enthusiastic thumbs up to Stiles who shuffled after him. _ _

__

__They walked for awhile._ _

__Most of it was done in silence with the cool, crisp now November air nipping at their skin. Flecks of gold and orange rained down with the leaves that fell free from trees while muggy gray clouds loomed overhead, though they were little more than overcast. Derek walked slower than he usually did because Stiles didn’t walk very fast without his binder, his arms still securely tucked over his chest despite the need to move and wriggle his fingers into the pockets of the borrowed sweatpants. He felt too cooped up and Derek must’ve caught on because his dark eyebrows furrowed, head tipping to the side to look over Stiles who was only a few marks shorter. “You alright?” he asked. It was gentle and the first thing he’d said since they saw one another after their (separate) showers._ _

__Stiles was thankful for that though and nodded briskly, pulling his arms up a little further to take in the soft smells curled into the sweater’s fabric. “Jus’ don’t like not wearing it.”_ _

__“Ah.”_ _

__For once, no follow-up question of ‘why not’ or ‘nobody will see you, why bother’ came after. Just blissful silence. Really at that point, Stiles was used to the questions that came out, especially when they first find out about the whole shebang. Really, it wasn’t a big deal. It was 2015, he had good friends, yadda yadda life story._ _

__But he also hadn’t thought about dating anyone once he started his transition. Not until Derek came along._ _

__It was a thought that preoccupied some of his time. Okay, a lot of his time- but in between classes and his stops to the store he never really _found_ the time to talk about it. With anyone really. Sure, he and Derek had spoken briefly about the whole trans thing because well, Derek’s not stupid and apparently he has a heart of gold under that grouchy exterior. But dating was a whole other world._ _

__So Stiles was a little unnerved at the situation at hand and fumbled with a loose thread, listening to he and Derek’s steps echo off the pavement and the occasional puff of air Derek let loose from his lips._ _

__“I was wondering-” they both start at the same time._ _

__And they both stop walking, shoulders brushing._ _

__Derek, much to Stiles’ surprise, is the first one to clear his throat and look around for somewhere they could actually stop and take a minute to talk without the fear of one of them (Stiles) running into a pole or being hit by an oncoming pedestrian and their dog. Derek tips his chin to the side to a lone bench that looked like it had seen better days, surface worn with graffiti of some washed-up gang that probably died off years ago._ _

__They sit down and Stiles relishes in the fact he can unfold his arms in choice of hunching over slightly, though Derek did offer a small pout at the action._ _

__Instead of chastising him, he pulls his hands from the pockets of the jacket and folds them on his lap. A very un-Derek thing. Except everything about Derek had been really un-Derek the moment he’d gotten to know the guy and stopped judging him like a damn book cover._ _

__Derek swallowed, signature blush tinting his ears red. From the cold, Stiles assumed. “I was wondering if you want to… if you’d like to- damn it, I’m no good at this. Stiles do you want to go on a date sometime?”_ _

__What. “What?”_ _

__The blush spread and he made a grumbling sound. “Date. Actual, no panic attack, no bookstore staring contest date. Like a movie. Or dinner. Or something.”_ _

__“Even though I’m-”_ _

__“You’re-”_ _

__Stiles gestured slowly to his hunched over form then let his hands drop to the side. He shouldn’t be so worried about it._ _

__“You’re you, Stiles.” Derek said it like he’d been saying it his whole life. Soft and genuine, words pliant and smooth and not laced with the usual bitter sarcasm Stiles found himself biting down on. “You’ve been coming to my store- Peter’s store- for months. When you first walked into the store with Scott I swore I would be kicking you out faster than Peter could swear in Spanish. Instead, you brought… God this is stupid. You brought a lot of loud, bubbly, obnoxiously bright laughter into a place my Uncle would rather see on fire. Before you showed up I wanted to quit and tell him to close it because we had no customers, not really.” He sighed, dragging a hand over the hollow of his throat before itching at his stubble._ _

__Yet again Stiles was left speechless, so Derek cleared his throat and mumbled on._ _

__“Once you showed up, more people just… kind of followed. And then you got my number, sent me text at the asscrack of dawn with monologues about your classes, and suddenly you’re everywhere. Shit, Stiles, I didn’t get coffee for a week because I thought you would get tired of seeing me all the damn time. And at the party-”_ _

__“Holy shit.”_ _

__Derek croaked on his words, blinked, and mouthed a ‘what’ as Stiles’ thumbs jittered under the sleeves of his sweater._ _

__“Oh my God, dude, you… Did you keep the store open for me? _Me?_ ”_ _

__Derek nodded. Slowly._ _

__“And you didn’t get coffee for a week because you thought I’d be sick of you?”_ _

__That got him a little scoff, though Derek’s expression was anything but angry. “Yeah I… did just say that.”_ _

__Stiles preened below the blush creeping up his neck and cheeks, hands dancing on his lap and teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Holy shit dude, no way. I like- Derek I’ve been worried that you weren’t into me for, like, ever. I thought I annoyed you and you only humored me because I was some dumb kid picking out your books every week. I didn’t think… I mean I kinda guessed but I sorta really didn’t actually think you’d wanna like, I dunno-”_ _

__“Date you?”_ _

__“Yeah, that. Date me. Date ‘ol Stilinski-boy.”_ _

__Derek snorted and Stiles thought about his Adderall back at the apartment. “I… didn’t at first, no.” Stiles deflated a little. “But it’s- It’s not because you were too loud or anything I just… I don’t, haven’t dated a lot of people. I had a couple girlfriends but they never worked out and you’re like…”_ _

__“...like a first boyfriend?” Stiles gawked, though his excited voice died down to a little giddy whisper._ _

__“...yeah.” Derek finished, pulling at his oversized leather jacket. “I didn’t want to do the wrong thing or… come off too… me.”_ _

__“Derek,” Stiles murmured, grin still laced over his lips as a small laugh began. “You didn’t even know my name until you popped into the coffee shop and I said ‘What are you’ like I was faced with the new Dracula. And you wanted to avoid _me?_ Didn’t you see me flee to the backroom of safety? And- and when I commented on your whole sexy, growly angry killer thing at the store the first day I was actually _there_. If anyone was coming off strong it was me, and you were just- bein’ Derek.”_ _

__“I read your lips while you were typing on your blog. That same day,” Derek countered._ _

__“I punched you in the nose. And threw up in your Camaro.” Stiles quipped back._ _

__“You helped me with Isaac, though.” Like being punched and throwing up in an outrageously expensive car didn’t matter to him. Which, granted, no longer phased Stiles’ fragile, easily panicked mind. But he still thought about it from time to time._ _

__“Bah,” Stiles shrugged, arching his back just slightly to get the knot out from between his shoulders. When he hunched back over Derek was politely looking away. That was… nice. He fumbled out a hand and clasped it gently on Derek’s sleeve, causing him to look back with a somewhat sheepish expression. “I still stand by what I said. You are a good friend,” he murmured, smile broad. “And ah… I bet you’d be a good first actual totally-not-an-asshole boyfriend, too.”_ _

__Derek snorted but ducked his head down and let his fingers scrape over the edge of Stiles’ own fingers, though Stiles could see his dimples from his smiling. “I hope so,” he mumbled._ _

__“Don’t get shy on me now, big guy! I should be the one sinking into this sweater. I mean, really. You’re the big bad Bigby wolf remember? I’m Stiles who likes long naps and occasionally stabs his leg for the betterment of his health.”_ _

__Another snort and Derek was back from hiding, his kaleidoscope eyes bright and warm and very much the polar opposite of what Stiles would have guessed them to be a couple months ago. His thin fingers wiggled closer to Derek’s, warm and anxious and a little more terrified than excited before Derek followed through and clasped the edges of his knuckles in a gentle grip._ _

__“So,” Stiles hummed thoughtfully, sneaking glances to their linked hands._ _

__“So,” Derek parroted. “That date.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gross mummy sounds as I somehow rise from the grave*  
> seriously guys I feel so bad about leaving this hanging but NO LONGER please yell at me if I leave this go for more than a month, really.
> 
> I'm not... 100% on how I'm going to end it (it'll be happy though!)because   
> A) I never intended for it to be super long/thick with plot and   
> B) holy cow have I been out of my own fic's loop.
> 
> But either way thank you SO much for continuing to read and support this- it amazes me I still see kudos pop up in my email.  
> I hope you enjoy this little chapter of fluff!


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